


Just Between You and Me

by Girl_in_Red_Crossing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 51,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_in_Red_Crossing/pseuds/Girl_in_Red_Crossing
Summary: A collection of Geraskier ficlets. Each chapter title includes a label for pre-slash, established relationship, or AU.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 687
Kudos: 1906
Collections: Best Geralt, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	1. Roach Knows (Pre-slash)

Roach noticed first.

Her ears, normally trained on their surroundings, flicked back. Geralt didn’t slow at once, but after a few more paces, the bard’s lute plucking faded into silence. With a resigned grunt, Geralt let Roach turn, expecting the bard had tripped over a loose stone–again–because his mind was on melody instead of maintaining his feet. The next half hour–at least–would be spent lamenting the tear in his trousers.

But instead of the sight of Jaskier sprawled in the road, Geralt’s gaze was met by the bard’s wide blue eyes.

“You,” Jaskier said, his gape of astonishment morphing into a delighted grin, “were _humming_.”

“What,” Geralt grit out.

“You were humming,” Jaskier said again. He closed the space between them with the kind of gliding strides he usually reserved for prancing around tables in taverns. “You like this one.”

Geralt clenched his teeth and guided Roach forward again.

“Oh, no!” Jaskier exclaimed, jogging to keep pace beside them. “Don’t even try to deny it. Roach heard it, didn’t you, Roach?”

Roach bobbed her head with a snort, ears flicking back toward him again.

“Traitor,” Geralt growled.

“The next time I play this song, I’m telling everyone that this is your _personal_ favorite,” Jaskier announced.

Geralt snorted. “That’s no threat. No one listens to you anyway.”

Instead of gawping offense and more appeals to Roach, Jaskier merely smirked up at Geralt, eyes smug and twinkling. “You do. _Clearly_.”

Scowling, Geralt spurred Roach ahead. The tune followed him down the path as Jaskier resumed his strumming with a jaunty, laughing rhythm.


	2. Say Yes, Say No, Say Maybe (Established)

Geralt heard Jaskier’s hurried steps for a long minute before the bard’s fingers laced through his; he hadn’t realized the other man had fallen so far behind.

“Look,” Jaskier said, tugging Geralt’s hand toward the side of the road. “You see that sparkling through the trees? I’ll bet there’s a lovely lake.”

Geralt hummed and kept walking. The renewed silence only lasted a few more strides.

“Let’s stay for the night.”

When Jaskier stopped and Geralt kept walking, their joined hands stretched for a moment and then slipped apart.

“There’s still two hours of daylight.”

He made it three more steps before the soft call of his name finally halted his steps. Roach snorted, and he patted her neck before turning to face his dawdling lover.

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt, I’m tired,” Jaskier cut in. For once, the words were not a playful whine, and the bard’s expression was solemn. He closed the space between them with slow steps, and the lowering sun full on his face illuminated the dark smudges beneath blue eyes. “We haven’t spent a night in a proper bed in more than a week. And yes, I could trudge on until it’s full dark and then collapse into my bedroll, but… gods, Geralt…”

He gazed into Geralt’s eyes for a moment and then let his head drop to rest against the Witcher’s chest. “I’m just… tired,” he murmured.

Before even thinking, Geralt’s arm was reaching, curling around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him close. He let out a sigh and then began herding bard and horse toward the treeline. Jaskier stumbled for a moment as he was turned, gaping at Geralt as though he’d grown horns.

“One early night,” he grumbled.

In the next moment, Jaskier grabbed his jaw, kissed his cheek, and then dashed off into the trees toward the glittering lake beyond.

Geralt huffed. “Tired, he says,” he drawled to Roach. She shook her head but followed him eagerly into the shade.

—

Jaskier curled up in his bedroll fast asleep the moment Geralt finished the tent, nor was he easy to rouse in the morning. Geralt growled his annoyance as the bard continued to burrow deeper into the blankets every time Geralt shook his shoulder.

“Jaskier,” he snapped.

“Fuck you,” came the mumbled reply.

“Jaskier, we’re leaving.”

“No.”

“No?”

Jaskier finally emerged, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired. “I’m staying.”

“You’re in _my_ tent,” Geralt growled.

To his complete exasperation, Jaskier began to inch his way toward the tent flap, still wrapped in his bedroll.

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier winced when the full sunlight outside hit his face, but he continued to wriggle his way out onto the grass. He flopped flat on his back with an arm across his eyes once his feet cleared the tent.

“There,” he groused. “Now you’re free to go.”

“I’ll leave you here,” Geralt threatened.

The bard only waved a lazy hand in his general direction. Within moments, he was snoring. Geralt grit his teeth and ripped down the tent with more force than necessary. He wrapped it up tight and shoved it into Roach’s saddlebag. He kicked dirt over the ashes of the campfire, stowed the last of his gear, and pulled Roach’s reins loose from the tether, and still the bard didn’t stir. He just lay there, loose-limbed and soft, easy prey for any passing beast or bandit.

“Fuck,” Geralt swore, and he led Roach to a new patch of clover before driving the stake for her tether back into the ground.

—

Jaskier didn’t wake until near noon, and then he wolfed down the fish Geralt had spent the morning catching. He’d barely licked his fingers before he was turning a mischievous grin on Geralt and then hurrying down to the lake’s sandy shore, leaving a trail of hastily discarded clothes in his wake. The bright sun shone golden on his pale skin, and when he came to collect Geralt, the Witcher’s attempts at batting the hands removing his clothes were half-hearted.

When the bard jumped on his back and forced him deep into the chilly water with no warning, he didn’t hold back at tossing Jaskier with his full strength into the depths in retaliation. Jaskier resurfaced whooping and laughing, and the ensuing wrestling match ending with them rolling in the soft grass of their camp with entirely different purpose.

When dark fell again, they lounged by the campfire, Jaskier between Geralt’s legs, leaning against his chest, only a blanket separating their skin from the starry night. The bard pressed a kiss behind Geralt’s ear, and the Witcher hummed in contentment.

“We should do this again sometime,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt only hummed once more, but they both knew it was an agreeable hum.


	3. Some Sunny Day (Reincarnation AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from ivy-raven on Tumblr: Prompt! So, a reincarnation AU in which canon isn't their first life and it's Geralt's first life as a Witcher, so he's afraid that when they find each other Jaskier won't want him until they're reborn again. Finding Jaskier being Jaskier was a huge relief

As a child, Geralt believed in destiny.

How could he not when he knew from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet that he was meant for something? _Someone?_ He could not remember who they were, but he knew they were out there somewhere, or soon would be. And they would find each other and then everything would be right and their life together would begin. It had happened before, he knew, and it was only a matter of time until it happened again.

Being a Witcher was not his destiny.

The mutations weren’t just wrong in his body. They were wrong in his _soul_. He had never endured anything like this before. When he cried as much to Vesemir, the old Witcher had frowned at him. Of course, a young boy would not have known such trials in his short life. But Geralt knew it was more than that.

It was wrong. _He_ was wrong. How would his someone find him now? How would they know him when he had been twisted up inside?

They wouldn’t, he decided. And when he looked into the mirror at unnatural golden eyes and white hair, he was glad. _Let them have someone else._

When he passed his sixth decade, a full human lifetime alone, any lingering remnant of hope snuffed out like a candle. Whatever dreams he had of other lives, whatever borrowed memories of tenderness sometimes woke him in the dead of night, they were just dreams.

Destiny, Geralt decided, was bullshit.

He did not expect it to find him in a tavern in Posada.

He hadn’t even been listening to the bard, didn’t even look up as the young man approached, assuming he was headed toward someone else. He did look up when the man drew breath to speak—perhaps he had a job for Geralt—and so he saw the moment that blue eyes flew wide, even as he felt a jolt like lightning spark in his veins, in his heart. He saw lifetimes of memories fill those eyes, even as he struggled to hold down a similar flood in his own mind. And he saw the first tear roll down his beloved’s cheek, slip down his jaw, and cling to his chin like a glistening ripe fruit.

He was out of his seat and halfway to the door before it fell. He had almost reached his horse before he heard quick footfalls and heavy breaths behind him.

“Where are you going?” his lover demanded.

“Away,” he snapped.

“Fair enough,” the other man chirped. “Just let me collect my things and we can-”

Geralt whirled to glare at the bard. “There is no we.”

They stared at each other, blind and deaf to the village around them. Geralt had forgotten how easy that was, how easy it was for them to fall into each other and let everything else slip away, and his heart _ached_.

The eyes searching his flicked to his lips (gods, he’d forgotten the man was such a flirt) but then traveled up to his hair and down to his amulet. “Wait. I know who you are. You’re Geralt of Rivia.”

And then he laughed, and it wasn’t pleasant, wasn’t anything like it was in Geralt’s dreams. It was wet and teary and bitter and hurting, and Geralt was ready to run from it, from all of it, from all of _him_ , but strong hands gripped his shirt and held him fast.

“Do you remember?” his beloved said, tears still streaking down his face. “Do you remember how our last life ended?”

And no matter how hard Geralt tried not to, tried to keep holding it down, he suddenly did.

“It…” He barely recognized his own voice thick with emotion. “I fought a barghest.”

His lover nodded, smiling through his tears, his eager hands coming up to cradle Geralt’s face. “You did. A pack wandered near the village, and you were so afraid someone would be hurt.”

“There were children,” Geralt breathed.

“And you were so damn brave.” Geralt couldn’t help but clutch at his lover’s arms at the pain in his words. “And you chased them off, but you were hurt, you were _bleeding_ in my arms, and do you remember what you said?”

“I said…” Geralt had to swallow around the lump in his throat. “I wished I had been someone strong enough to protect you.”

His lover nodded, beaming. “But you did. You _did_. I lived a good, long life, though I was so _desperately_ lonely for you.” He pulled Geralt to him so their foreheads touched. “But I knew I would find you again. And you’re here. You’re finally, finally here.”

When he stepped back, his grin was wide. “And look at you!” he announced. “You’re a Witcher! A hero! You certainly got your wish, love.”

Geralt wanted to scowl, but his heart’s wings were fluttering, preparing to soar. “They call me a butcher,” he mumbled.

His beloved just laughed again, and this time the sound was a song, as sweet as any dream. He launched himself at Geralt, capturing his lips in a firm kiss and then pressing softer pecks to his jaw. “Not anymore they don’t,” he murmured into Geralt’s skin. “I’m a bard, and I am going to sing you into glory, my love.”

Then he rocked back on his heels, still grinning like a fool. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. Now let’s go start our life.”


	4. A Letter for Roach (Pre-slash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from calamity-aims on Tumblr: While wintering at Kaer Morhen, Geralt somehow gets a letter from Jaskier and is absurdly pleased by this

Geralt didn’t stop brushing Roach when the creaking wheels of a wagon reached him from outside the stable. He heard Eskel call his horse to a stop and unhitch her and then the soft clop of hooves and footsteps as the pair entered the next stall over. Roach nickered a welcome, and Geralt and Eskel exchanged nods. Both Witcher and horse seemed calm and easy, so Geralt assumed the several-days’ journey to the nearest village for supplies had been uneventful. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Geralt finished his work, put the grooming supplies away, and prepared to leave with one last stroke of Roach’s mane.

Eskel called him back, and Geralt raised a questioning eyebrow as the other Witcher reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded parchment.

“This came with Vesemir’s correspondence.”

Geralt’s other eyebrow lifted to match its partner, especially when he noticed the way Eskel’s lips twitched, as if the man was trying not to smile. He took the letter–it was probably a request for aid from a desperate village or perhaps a demand from Yennefer that he perform this or that service for her, winter be damned–but the writing was too neat for a barely literate villager or a sorceress with more important tasks than making her handwriting legible. The directions on the outside of the parchment were written in a careful, educated hand by someone who held words as art and not just communication.

They also indicated that the letter was for Roach.

Geralt’s gaze snapped to Eskel’s, and this time the other Witcher didn’t hold back his grin as he shrugged. Geralt glowered back and then stalked to the bench at the far end of the stable before unfolding the letter he had crushed in his hand.

_My darling girl,_

_I hope you won’t object to me writing you. Rather unorthodox, I know, but the weather has been so dreadful this season, and I had to make sure you were being properly cared for. You must be forelock deep in snow up in those pitiless mountains! We’ve had nothing but rain and rain and more rain here in Oxenfurt, and that is bad enough. The downpour was romantic for a time, but then I ran out of dry socks. Is there anything less romantic than wet feet? But I don’t have to tell you that, poor dear, with the way your master drags you all over this continent through every conceivable form of precipitation._

_Is he feeding you enough? Does he fetch you an extra blanket when the nights are particularly chilly? Tell him to bring you all the apples and carrots you desire and that the occasional sugar cube won’t weaken your teeth. Your teeth are anything but weak, as the large tear in my green doublet can attest! (Of course, I don’t blame you, dearest. You saved me from that bandit’s dagger when you yanked my collar, and I shall never forget it.)_

_Speaking of your master, tell me honestly, just between you and me, whether he’s all right. If I write to him, he’ll just disregard any of my concern, but you and I both know how he is when he isn’t sleeping well. Did that gash on his leg heal properly? I have no doubt he pulled off the bandages I arranged so carefully the moment I disappeared behind that bend in the road._

_Of course, from my perspective, it was you who disappeared. I cursed every branch on the tree that finally stole you from my view. I know I was all cheer the night before we parted, but that was just a brave face (and perhaps a touch too much wine). In all honesty, I find it harder and harder to leave you each time our paths diverge. No one else’s company compares to yours, and my days are the duller for it._

_But enough of that! I’m sure you have very important grazing to do, and I won’t keep you from it any longer. I don’t expect a reply as you haven’t got hands to hold a quill, but know that someone miles and miles away is thinking of you and counting the days until spring’s first blooms._

_Your humble servant and sneaker of treats,_

_Jaskier_

When Geralt looked up from the unnecessary loops and flourishes of the bard’s signature, Eskel was gone. The two horses stood dozing in their stalls, and a light snow had begun to fall. He could hear Lambert cursing as he unloaded the wagon and tossed the crates onto the packed dirt of the courtyard and knew he’d be hollered at to help sooner or later. Standing, he folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. He’d read it to Roach in the morning–the very early morning before anyone else was awake to hear him.

Until then, he’d hold onto it. And if he read it again before snuffing the candle in his bedroom that night, no one else would see.


	5. I'll Take My Hits (and Yours Too) (Pre-slash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from calamity-aims on Tumblr: Not everyone likes “toss a coin”, especially mercenaries who think Geralt is taking their jobs, so one night Jaskier is jumped outside a bar by them and Geralt saves him (before or after episode six? IDK)

Traveling with a Witcher had made Jaskier something of a connoisseur of gut punches.

The first came courtesy of the man himself, but since then, Jaskier had gathered enough comparisons to consider that one barely a love tap. Despite his best efforts, Witchers were still not appreciated in all corners of the continent, and many who disapproved chose to take their ire out on the admittedly easier target of the bard in Geralt’s vicinity. (There was also the occasional cuckolded lover, but that was almost always a misunderstanding.)

But being an easier target than a Witcher (what man wouldn’t be?) did not mean Jaskier was weak. His experiences had also instilled in him at least the basics of defending himself in a scrap, so when men jumped him just behind the tavern he’d finished performing in, snarling about mutants stealing honest men’s work, he wasn’t overly alarmed. 

Firstly, they were human, who in the broader sense, yes, were often more monstrous than actual monsters, but in the very physical, hand-to-hand sense, Jaskier was more than happy to engage his fellow man over, say, a drowner. Secondly, there were only two of them. Thirdly, in the aftermath of a brutal, overlong winter, the two men were less robust than they might have been and likely would be again once the early crops came in. (In retrospect, Jaskier realized that wearing fine clothes and melodically imploring these people to toss their meager coins to a Witcher, no matter how deserving, was perhaps a wee bit insensitive in the face of their current plight.)

All told, he was holding his own quite well in his opinion. A split lip from a lucky hit, yes, but beyond that, he’d dodged and wriggled his way out of more serious blows. His mistake lay in turning his back in an attempt to dash for the tavern door. One of the men grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back in a solid hold. As he was manhandled away from the door, he saw the other man retrieve a set of iron rings from his pocket and slip them over his knuckles, and that was when he felt his first real fear of the night.

He drew breath to call for help, but the slam of a fist to his side punched the air from his lungs. His vision whited out at the moment of impact, and he felt/heard a soft snap. He dropped to his knees so hard that the man holding his arms lost his grip, and Jaskier curled in on himself tight enough that his hair dragged through the mud. It wasn’t a great position, given that it put his face mere inches from their heavy-looking boots, but he couldn’t straighten enough to sit upright, let alone stand, and he braced himself for the kick.

Instead the tavern door slammed open behind him. Over his gulping attempts to breathe, he heard a familiar deep voice shouting at the men, followed by retreating footfalls. When a warm hand came to rest at the nape of his neck, Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, releasing the tears from his lashes to fall spattering to the ground.

“Can you stand?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shook his head, and the hand swept down from his neck to rub circles across the center of his back. The warmth and gentle touch eased him through the worst of the pain, and after several long minutes, he was able to take a shuddering breath slightly deeper than a gasp. Geralt helped him lever himself back to vertical and kept a grip on his shoulder as he spent a few more minutes trying to regain a natural rhythm to his breathing.

“What was that about?”

Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes, and even in the dim light from the torch over the door, he could see the beginnings of guilt and self-recrimination brewing. He would already punish himself for not being there, for letting Jaskier get hurt (ridiculous man). How could Jaskier possibly tell him he’d been the target of a proxy attack on the Witcher?

Instead he summoned a smirk (which turned into more of a grimace as a trickle of blood eeked out from his lip). “Must have batted my eyes at the wrong young lady,” he panted. “You know me.”

Geralt gazed at him, expression impassive but for those lovely golden eyes and the barest downward tilt of his lips. But rather than press the issue, he let out a characteristic hum and tightened his grip to pull Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier hissed at the flare of pain in his side and wrapped his arms around his middle again.

“Bandages,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier nodded. Something had cracked, and wrapping it up tight was likely the best solution, followed by the unsparing ingestion of wine and a long sleep in a soft bed. Geralt’s hand on his shoulder guided him across the muddy road to the inn where they’d secured a room for the night. Thank the gods the innkeeper was more appreciative of their presence than some of his neighbors.

Traveling with a Witcher had made Jaskier something of a target.

He didn’t regret a moment.


	6. Three Little Words (Established)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: Hi! I don't know if you're still taking prompts but if you are, I had one!! I would love to see if you could write the first time that Geralt says 'I love you' to Jask. I have a little headcanon that Jaskier has been saying 'I love you' to Geralt through actions (the songs, the baths, staying with him for so long) all the time, but it's Geralt the one who says it first with words because he knows it's what Jaskier needs (and deserves).

Having swallowed the last of the needed potions, Geralt let his head fall back to the forest floor. He wanted nothing more than to drift away to sleep and leave the pain behind him, but he couldn’t, not when he could still hear Jaskier’s gulping breaths and feel the shaking of the hands pressing on his gut wound.

He forced his eyes open to meet his lover’s watery gaze. “It’s all right,” Geralt murmured. “I’m all right.”

Jaskier let out a wet-sounding snort. His face was streaked with his tears and Geralt’s blood. “All right, he says. I don’t think you actually understand what that phrase means. It does not generally include fountains of blood and collapsing dramatically.”

Geralt hummed and, despite his best efforts, couldn’t stop his eyes from fluttering closed. “I’ll live,” he amended.

“You’d better,” Jaskier growled.

He pressed down harder on Geralt’s stomach and didn’t let up even when Geralt lost the battle against the moan he tried to keep behind his teeth. His bard was strong, so much stronger than people gave him credit for, so much stronger than Geralt had wanted to acknowledge. He’d tried so hard for so long to make Jaskier small and weak in his own mind, struggling desperately to deny the admiration that he knew would turn to love much, much too easily.

What a fool he’d been.

He blinked through the haze of pain, seeking out the beautiful blue eyes so much closer above him than the envious sky.

“I love you,” he told them.

Another downpour of tears fell onto his chest. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier choked. “ _Fuck_. You’re dying. Oh, gods, Geralt. Oh, _fuck_.”

Jaskier only cried harder when Geralt let out a soft chuckle, and yes, perhaps he was slightly delirious with blood loss, but he lifted his hand to circle Jaskier’s wrist with strong fingers that were no longer numb.

“I’m not dying, Jaskier.”

“Then why would you say that?” Jaskier sobbed, burying his face in Geralt’s chest.

Geralt raised his other hand to pet through Jaskier’s hair. “Because it’s true,” he said. “And you deserve to hear it.”

They continued on like that for more minutes than Geralt’s drifting mind could track, Jaskier crying but keeping steady pressure on Geralt’s mending wound and Geralt stroking every part of Jaskier he could reach. When the bard finally looked up again, his eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks blotchy, and a thin stream of mucous fell from his nose to catch on his lip. Without a free hand, he was forced to wipe his face against the shoulder of his already-ruined doublet.

“I hate you so much,” he declared, though his eyes said differently. “How am I supposed to make a love song out of this?”

Geralt just smiled, tilted Jaskier’s head down to his, and kissed the tears away.


	7. Vigil (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt for an anonymous user on Tumblr: Would you write something about Geralt saying goodbye to Roach for the last time ( maybe she dies or maybe she is just too old to go romping with a witcher across the continent and is retired to a nice farm...) and jaskier being there for him and comforting him

“How many have you had?”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier’s question, putting a temporary halt to his inspection of Roach’s coat for burrs or insect stings. She flicked her tail in his face at the loss of attention, and he snorted as he shouldered her in the flank.

“How many what have I had?”

“Horses,” Jaskier clarified. He was plucking his lute from his seat by the fire and gazing at him with the silly, dreamy look he got whenever Geralt showed Roach any care, as if he were just a doting fool and both their lives didn’t depend on her health on a regular basis.

“Seven,” he grunted, and he ran his hands down Roach’s leg to check for any swelling.

“Tell me about your favorite.”

Jaskier laughed and raised his hands in surrender at the fierce glare Geralt shot him. “I apologize for daring to imply you love any of your darlings less than any others.” He crossed his arms over his lute and rested his chin on them. “Tell me about your first.”

Instead of answering, Geralt stalked around to Roach’s other side to check the rest of her legs. When he was finished, he took a moment to rest his head along her neck, smelling and listening to the thrum of life through her veins. Jaskier called his name, a note of questioning in his voice. Geralt gave this Roach a final pat, checked her picket line, and then went to join the other man at the fire.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked again. He set aside his lute and watched Geralt stoke the fire with a small frown. “Is everything all right?”

Geralt’s poking sent a shower of sparks into the darkening sky. Several of his horses had finished their lives at Kaer Morhen, occasionally called upon to bring supplies up the treacherous path from the nearest village but otherwise free of demands and burdens.

The life of his first horse had ended in a nightmare of agony, blood, and screaming. He’d spent nearly two years traveling solely on foot before Vesemir forced another mare on him.

Jaskier crawled slowly across the distance between them before settling against Geralt’s side. One of his hands came to rest on Geralt’s knee and squeezed in silent support. The sun had almost completely set before Geralt broke the stillness.

“She was a good horse.”

Jaskier just nodded, leaning against his shoulder. For once, he didn’t ask more questions, and they let the quiet vigil stretch on for just a bit longer, broken only by the soft sounds of Roach cropping the grass behind them.


	8. Old Marrieds (Established)

As Jaskier finishes his final song with a flourish, he’s all smiles and playful winks as the tavern’s patrons burst into applause. Coins patter like rain at his feet, which would normally coerce him into playing a few more favorites (not that he tends to need much convincing), but on this night, he simply gathers them up, puts his lute away, and heads toward the table in the corner where Geralt sits. With the bard’s back turned to the fireplace and his face in shadow, his smile falls. Little furrows of pain crease his brow, and he holds his right arm stiffly against his side.

He slides onto the bench beside Geralt, kisses his temple, and gulps gratefully at the ale Geralt had ordered for him. Without a word, Geralt reaches under the table to take Jaskier’s right hand between his palms. The warmth alone is enough to soften some of Jaskier’s tension, and when Geralt begins to smooth his thumbs down the bard’s wrist, Jaskier lets out a soft sigh of pleasure. The jagged scar along his forearm, the only remnant of a monster subsequently annihilated under Geralt’s wrath, had healed over years ago, but the ache of it returns on chilly days.

“You shouldn’t have played tonight,” Geralt grouses while continuing the gentle massage.

Jaskier smiles and tosses his hair in a youthful gesture that should look ridiculous for a man with more gray than brown in his hair. It doesn’t.

“And disappoint my fans? Never.”

“They’d live,” Geralt grunts.

“Don’t fret, love,” Jaskier says as he pats Geralt’s cheek with his free hand. “My left hand is just as nimble when it comes to playing _your_ instrument.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”

Jaskier winks at him, and when Geralt presses his fingers into one particularly sore spot on his wrist, he closes his eyes and moans in a way that is definitely audible to the people sitting at the tables surrounding them. A quick glare from a Witcher has them all going back to their drinks but not before they get an eyeful of Jaskier with his head thrown back and Geralt’s hands busy under the table.

“Behave,” Geralt hisses.

Blue eyes glance his way, sparkling above a saucy smirk. “Or what?”

Geralt leans forward to speak low in the bard’s ear. “Behave or I won’t rub your feet when we go upstairs.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter again, and his next groan (softer fortunately) seems almost involuntary. “Melitele’s tits,” he breathes, “after all the walking we did today, just hearing you suggest that gets me hard.”

“Liar,” Geralt huffs.

Jaskier grins. “Why don’t you move your hands lower and find out?”

“Cheeky shit.”

“Forever and always, darling.”


	9. Return of Old Marrieds (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from daryshkart on Tumblr: if you have time and inspiration strikes you, i would love to read something more from you about older silver fox Jaskier and Geralt, perhaps finally going to the coast, just taking a little vacation from all the troubles:)

A sweet song with a gentle melody and gentler lyrics led Geralt from the forest to the sandy shore. It was a far cry from the bawdier tunes of Jaskier’s younger years (though he still sang those with abandon in towns and taverns across the continent), but something about it made Geralt’s Witcher heart beat faster. Or perhaps it was the sight of the bard perched on a rock with his lute and in nothing but a pair of loose-fitting trousers. The morning sun painted his skin gold and caught in the silver in his hair, in his beard, and on his chest.

The day had dawned clear and bright, their first day at the little beach cottage Jaskier rented when Oxenfurt let out of session. They’d made it an annual tradition, the most sacred holiday of Geralt’s calendar.

His bard broke off his singing with a smile but continued plucking as Geralt approached. “And what have you got there?” he asked.

Geralt raised the brace of rabbits from the snares he’d laid out on his arrival the previous night. He’d had just enough time before Jaskier rode in and they were occupied by their reunion. “Dinner.”

“Splendid!” Jaskier exclaimed. “The garden’s in an abysmal state, but I might be able to dig out some spring onions. And did you see the strawberries on the south end? They’ve taken over the whole plot!”

“Which you love,” Geralt said.

“Which I love,” Jaskier agreed. “As do you. My white wolf may have a nasty bite, but at least one of those teeth is a sweet one.” 

Geralt grunted but didn’t dispute the point. “I didn’t expect you to rise before noon.”

Jaskier crinkled his nose and laid off playing to rest his arms atop his lute. “Those bastards had me teaching a morning class every day this term. I haven’t yet shaken the bad habit of getting out of bed at an unspeakable hour.”

“How dare they?” Geralt drawled and turned toward the house. He paused when Jaskier called his name, and when he looked back, the bard shifted to the side of his rock and patted the space next to him.

“Another winter’s come and gone,” he said softly. “Come and greet the spring with me.”

“The rabbits…”

“They’ll keep.”

So Geralt left his prey in the sand and settled on the rock, and Jaskier smiled at him, radiant with the sunlight and the soft lines around his lips that deepened when he laughed, evidence of a life lived with a full heart. He began to play and sing again, a song of the slow turning of the seasons and reunited lovers. Geralt closed his eyes and let the music and the sound of the waves wash away the harsh edges of the world to reveal the bittersweet core beneath.


	10. You Always Hurt the One You Love (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Quarantine prompt: geralt is hit by a spell of mindless rage that compels him to kill the first thing he sees, jaskier manages to escape him alive but injured. Geralt is in agony over what hes done afterwards
> 
> **Content warning: vague reference to animal cruelty**

When Geralt awoke, the first thing he noticed was the chafe of rough rope binding his wrists. He shifted slightly and felt similar binds around his ankles. His eyes flew open, and a shadow that had been leaning over him scrambled back. Geralt’s eyes were briefly dazzled by the light of a campfire, but they adjusted quickly to focus on the kneeling figure.

“Jaskier,” Geralt snapped. “What the fuck?”

“Geralt?” The bard crept toward him slowly, then bent down to bring his face in line with where Geralt lay prone on the ground. He gazed into Geralt’s eyes for a moment before slumping back with a relieved groan. “Oh, thank the gods.”

“What the fuck?” Geralt repeated through clenched teeth.

“My sentiments exactly.” Jaskier ran a hand through his hair; he must have washed at some point because it stuck up like it had dried at strange angles. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

The question doused Geralt’s growing anger. Above them the moon hung high in the sky, but he remembered nothing of the time since mid-afternoon. His confusion must have shown on his face because Jaskier nodded.

“I thought as much.”

“Jaskier,” he demanded. “What. Happened.”

“You remember the petty lordling who wanted you to kill his neighbor? And how he was oh so gracious when you refused his request?”

Geralt nodded; the man had been nothing but polite and offered nothing but apologies for the misunderstanding. Even in the moment, he had felt his hackles rise, but there had been no visible threat. 

Jaskier blew out a breath. “His mage even shook your hand as we left, and I remember thinking, _finally_ , people with some manners.” 

His short, bitter laugh cut off when he shifted. He tried to hide a wince, but Geralt was pushing up to one elbow in an instant.

“You’re hurt.”

“A bit,” Jaskier replied with a rueful twist of his lips. “Nothing serious, I promise.”

“Jaskier…”

“Let me tell this tale my way, love. You owe me that much at least.” 

The latter phrase was muttered under his breath, but Geralt heard it and an icy fist gripped his gut.

“Where was I?” Jaskier asked, gathering himself with a deep breath. “Ah, right. The mage shaking your hand. So we were about an hour on the road when you started fussing with that hand. Shaking it, rubbing it against your trousers, glaring at it like it had personally wronged you. I asked you what was wrong, numerous times in fact, but _you_ of course refused to answer.” Jaskier frowned at him. “When you punched me in the stomach, for a moment I thought you’d just tired of my pestering.”

“I hit you?” Geralt asked. The fist in his gut reached frozen fingers toward his chest.

“Just like the day we met,” Jaskier sighed with false wistfulness. “Of course, once you took a swing at Roach, I knew something was truly wrong.”

Geralt’s gaze shot to his mare, but she was cropping a patch of clover, seemingly unconcerned. Jaskier snorted. “She’s fine. Dodged you easily and then wisely bolted down the road a stretch.”

Geralt swallowed through a thick throat as his eyes went back to Jaskier. “And you?”

“Less wise, I’m afraid.”

“Show me,” Geralt ordered, though his voice came out hoarse and desperate at the thought of the bruises that he now knew lay under Jaskier’s clothes.

Jaskier shook his head. “I know you need to know, but words are enough for now.” He scooted closer and drew his fingers lightly across Geralt’s brow, as though he were the one in need of comfort. “It was open-handed mostly. My shoulders and upper back. My legs. You smacked my arse a fair number of times–not the way I would have brought up spanking, by the way.”

Horror crawled up Geralt’s throat like bile, and though he didn’t deserve to be within miles of the man beside him, he buried his face in Jaskier’s thigh and let the bard continue to pet him.

“Honestly the scariest part of the whole thing was when I ran and slipped on the river bank. You hauled me back out almost the moment I fell in.”

“And then I hit you,” Geralt choked into Jaskier’s trousers.

“And then you hit me,” Jaskier agreed. Gentle fingers levered Geralt’s jaw upward until he was forced to meet blue eyes. “But here’s the pertinent bit. You didn’t kill me. You didn’t even try. You never hit my head or face. You never touched my throat or beat my chest.” He let out a soft laugh as he wiggled his fingers in Geralt’s face. “You never even touched my hands. I don’t know what that spell was, but I do know you fought it.”

“Not enough,” Geralt whispered. He felt raw and aching. He felt hollow. He felt an animalistic scream building up inside his lungs, just waiting to demonstrate to the world the monster he truly was.

“Enough for me,” Jaskier murmured back. He eased Geralt’s head back to the ground, then gingerly stretched out on the bedroll that had been laid beside him.

“How did it end?”

Jaskier curled into him, faces inches apart as if they were sharing secrets in the night. “All our scuffling sent the local wildlife running. You snatched a rabbit seemingly out of nowhere.” The bard’s eyes darted away for a moment before resettling on Geralt. “I won’t say what you did to it, but the moment it was dead, you slumped to the ground. I suppose the spell wanted you to kill something, and once you did, it was over.”

Geralt breathed his name, but Jaskier shook his head. “No more for now. I’m tired. And yes, I’m in pain, and yes, I’m cross about the whole thing, and yes, I am composing a mental list of the dozens and dozens of ways you will make this up to me, but for now, I just want to sleep a bit.”

Geralt forced himself to nod. “Don’t untie me, just in case.”

At that, Jaskier let out a genuine laugh. “Oh, fuck no. You’re staying trussed up until at least morning.” He laid a hand against the side of Geralt’s face. “Not the way I would have brought up ropes either.”

“Jaskier,” he huffed, but the bard only smiled.

“There you are,” he said. “All that matters to me right now is that when I look into your eyes, it’s you looking back.”

“I’ll start on your list first thing in the morning,” Geralt promised.

“Yes,” Jaskier yawned, pressing a sleepy peck to Geralt’s lips. “Yes, you will.”


	11. Beauty and Brains (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: If so I would love to get your take on the first time Jaskier sees Geralt after he’s taken his potions!! — I think Geralt would expect him to be afraid or leave so it could totally be a fluffy, hurt/comfort moment. Or just some smut, because Jaskier would straight up just be in the corner biting his lip like ‘shit, I did not need one more thing to fantasize about, but here we are!’

Geralt looked down at the corpses at his feet in disgust. A man in the nearby village had claimed the drowners numbered at least a dozen. Geralt had found three. The village alderman would doubtless use that fact to haggle his pay down even lower, and Geralt had been counting on harvesting the brains to refill his stock of Swallow. With what he’d found, the potions would be few and weak.

But it was better than nothing.

He dropped to his knees, pulled his belt knife, and began the task of sawing through the spongy flesh.

“Oh, gods, please tell me that thing is dead.”

The knife almost sliced through Geralt’s hand as he jumped. “Dammit, Jaskier!” he snapped over his shoulder. “I told you to stay with Roach.”

“And I absolutely did,” the bard insisted. “She is definitely very close to being almost within earshot.” 

Geralt’s knuckles went white on his knife as Jaskier crept closer. He crouched on the ground on the other side of the corpse, examining it for a moment, but then he looked straight into Geralt’s black eyes before Geralt could shift away or turn his head. The bard gagged, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh, wow. That is disgusting.”

Geralt hunched instinctively, curling his shoulders and letting his hair fall around his face. He’d been careful not to let the bard see him under the influence of his Witcher potions. He wasn’t sure why. It certainly would have been the easiest way to rid himself of the other man. Perhaps he’d begun to believe all of Jaskier’s pretty lies about not seeing Geralt as a monster.

Well, the judgment had been passed. Let the bard make a song out of the _disgusting_ creature if he could.

“Are they always this… squishy?”

Geralt peered through his loose hair to see that Jaskier had bent close to the drowner. He had also pulled out a notebook and a fucking quill and was scribbling furious notes.

“Jaskier.”

The bard glanced up at him with a sheepish smile. “I know. I know. I’m supposed to stay with Roach. But you never let me get close enough, Geralt! I need _details_! I need to see it, hear it, smell it, taste it.” He pulled a face. “Okay, maybe not taste it. But _details_!” He waved with the quill until he almost overbalanced and barely avoided landing his ass in the swamp.

When he regained his crouch, he grinned, looking eager as a starving man at a banquet. “And you have to tell me _everything_ about…” He gestured in front of his own eyes and then reached across to do the same to Geralt, who batted the hand away.

“That’s the potions, right?” he asked, quill already poised. “Do they all do that or just some of them? Can you mix them? Gods, that look on you is just… How have I never seen this before?”

Geralt frowned at him. “You just said it was disgusting.”

“What?” Jaskier’s brow furrowed as his smile slipped away. “You mean before? I was talking about the drowners.” He leaned closer, and this time the knee of his trousers did sink into the swamp. He didn’t seem to notice. 

“Geralt,” he continued in a softer voice, “please tell me you know I was talking about the drowners.”

The weight of sincerity in his blue eyes made Geralt’s shoulders twitch uncomfortably, and he looked away through the trees toward where he’d left Roach. He almost fell over himself when he felt the tip of Jaskier’s quill brush his jaw, coaxing him to look back at the bard.

“Geralt, believe me when I say that the way you look right now…” He caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Definitely _not_ disgusting.”

Geralt snorted and rolled his eyes, and Jaskier burst out laughing. The sound disturbed a pair of nesting birds, and they flew off into the mist.

“Oh, gods! That’s hysterical! Your eyes are completely black, and I can still tell you’re rolling them at me. Well, nice try, chum, but if your act of weary exasperation hasn’t chased me off yet, it’s not going to now.”

“Not an act,” Geralt huffed and went back to harvesting the drowner’s brain.

Jaskier gagged again. “You know, I’m starting to have second thoughts about the whole ‘smelling it’ idea.”

“That’s too bad,” Geralt noted, “because I’m making you carry the brains back to town for not staying with Roach.”

_“Geralt!”_


	12. The White Squirrel (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: Prompt!! What if Jaskier goes looking for Geralt after he’s gone too long on a hunt, and finds Geralt’s medallion on the ground?

The sun was going down. The sun was going down and Geralt was not back and Jaskier was all alone (Roach excepted) in a very dark forest that was growing darker by the moment.

“‘We don’t need to bring supplies,’” the bard groused in his best imitation of Geralt. “‘It’s just a harpy. We’ll be back before supper.’ Well, it’s past supper now, _Geralt_.” 

Roach stamped her foot. 

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed. “You understand the situation, you clever girl.”

He gave her a pat on the neck and then sighed. “I suppose I should go take a look, hmm?” He gave her a quick kiss since Geralt wasn’t around to growl jealously. “Tell everyone I died bravely.”

After a deep breath for courage, he left the small clearing they’d been waiting in and plunged into the shadows. The temperature seemed to fall instantly; goosebumps rose on his arms, and he rubbed his hands up and down them to keep himself warm.

“When a humble bard,” he sang under his breath,

wound up dead along

with Geralt of Rivia

'cause he took too long…”

A branch crashing to the ground in the distance drew his attention. “Geralt!” he called. “Geralt, is that you?”

He glanced back once to be sure Roach was still in sight in her little pocket of sunshine, then hurried toward the sound. “Geralt!”

He came to the base of a large tree. The branch he’d heard clearly hadn’t been the first to fall; the ground was littered with a collection of sticks and leaves amid the tree’s roots. The bark had been slashed in long stripes, likely claws. Jaskier shivered and bent to get a closer look. As he did, his eye caught on something metal snagged on a knot in the wood. He pulled it free, and his other hand came to cover his mouth in horror.

“Oh, gods,” he whispered. Geralt’s Witcher medallion dangled from his fingers. “No, no, no, no.” He turned in a circle, scanning the forest, desperate for any sign of his friend. “Geralt!”

“Stop yelling.”

Jaskier spun around again, brow furrowed. “Geralt?”

He heard a heavy sigh, and it came–unmistakably–from above him. He craned his head back to look up. Geralt looked back at him, upside-down, white hair falling in a curtain beneath him.

“Oh, holy hells,” Jaskier said. “What are you doing up there?”

“Collecting nuts for the winter,” Geralt sneered.

Jaskier laughed. “I’ll have to change my songs. The White Squirrel. The White Bat, perhaps.”

Geralt sighed again. “Just find my sword. I’m caught in some vines.”

“You dropped your _sword_?”

“It caught in the harpy’s rib cage,” Geralt snapped. “When she tried to fly off, we got caught in this tree, and it knocked free.”

Jaskier crinkled his nose. “Is she up there with you?”

Geralt closed his eyes. “Yes. And she’s dripping on me, so _find the damn sword!_ ”

“All right, all right. Sheesh.” Jaskier shuffled through the leaves, tossing sticks aside as dug through the debris. “Get stuck in one little tree with a harpy corpse and you get all grump-aha!”

He pulled the sword free from a leaf pile and brandished it triumphantly, feeling very much like a hero of legend. It was immediately snatched from his hand from above. 

“Aww,” he pouted.

He heard grunts and the slice of a sword, and a tangle of vines fell at his feet. He looked up just in time to see Geralt grab a branch, swing himself right-side-up, and drop the full distance. He landed on his feet, knees bent, thighs flexing, sword in hand. He tossed his hair back to fall in a loose cascade around his face.

“Okay, _that_ was sexy,” Jaskier said with a grin.

“Hmm.”

Geralt sheathed his sword and then picked up a hefty branch. He hurled it into the tree, and an oozing, mangled harpy corpse dropped at their feet with a wet splat. Jaskier yelped and jumped back as bits of flesh and gods knew what else sprayed across his boots.

He gaped down in disbelief before turning a glare to Geralt.

“ _Not_ sexy, you bastard.”

The bastard just smirked and then bent to saw off the harpy’s head.


	13. Geralt and the Beanstalk (Different meeting AU)

When the beast finally fell, Geralt stood heaving for breath. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away with his sword arm. A spattering of the monster’s blood rained across the cave floor. He didn’t know what the creature was, hadn’t seen its like before, but it was _big_. And it had chosen to make its home in a cave at the top of a cliff so steep that the only way up was to climb the vines that clung to its sides. And because Geralt was occasionally a soft-hearted idiot, he was doing this job for a share of the local village’s bean harvest.

Fucking _beans_.

He turned to the mouth of the cave, assessing the sun’s position, wondering if he had the time and energy to climb back down the vines or if he should plan to spend the night in the lair thick with the creature’s stink.

A noise behind him set him whirling, resuming an attack stance while inwardly groaning at the thought of fighting another of the beasts. But instead of an outraged mate or offspring, a young man--human--walked toward him, hands held up in a gesture of peace. In stark contrast to the gloomy cave, he was dressed in bright yellow, though the doublet was clearly stained and torn. The neck of a lute peeked over the man’s shoulder, the wood of it pale and golden in the fading light.

When Geralt lowered his weapon, the man sagged in relief.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Please tell me you can get me out of here. It’s been three bloody days.”

“You’ve been here three days?”

The man nodded. His eyes flicked to the creature, and he shuddered before quickly looking away again. “That... whatever that was... snatched me right off the road. I assumed I would be dinner, but you know what they say about music soothing the savage beast, and it wasn’t like I had any other weapon, so when it dropped me in here, I started to play, and well...”

“It listened,” Geralt finished.

“Yes. I was perfectly grateful at first, but it barely let me stop to rest. My fingertips are cut to ribbons, and I don’t know how much longer I could have-”

Geralt help up his hand. “Stop. Save your voice.”

The man nodded again and shot Geralt a grateful look when the Witcher tossed him a small waterskin from his belt. He guzzled the water down and let out a theatrically pleased moan when he was done.

“So how about it?” he asked, his voice a bit more clear. “Can you get us down again?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed before turning and heading to the edge of the cliff below.

“Is that a yes? I haven’t had any human contact for quite some time, and verbal answers would be absolute music to my ears.”

Geralt looked at him over his shoulder. “For a man concerned his voice would give out, you’re talking a great deal.”

The man took no offense, only shrugged as he drew near. “As I said, haven’t seen another human in-oh, holy _fuck_ , we are high!”

Two gold-clad arms wrapped around Geralt’s bicep, clinging tightly. Geralt huffed and pushed the man off him. “Not a human.”

“You’re not?” Blue eyes suddenly widened, but instead of cringing away, the man actually grinned. “Wait a minute. Yellow eyes. White hair. I know who you are! You’re Geralt of Rivia, the famous Witcher. Or infamous maybe.”

He paused his speech when Geralt glared at him but then barreled on ahead. “I’m Jaskier the bard. And I promise you, friend, if you get me down from this nightmarish nest, I will write you a song that will have the entire Continent calling you a hero.”

“I don’t need a song,” Geralt growled. “And I’m not your friend.”

The first hint of uncertainty crossed the bard’s face. “But... you will help me down?”

Geralt peered over the edge again, sighed, and then sheathed his sword. He lifted the strap of the sheath over his head and resettled the swords over his chest before bending his knees in a crouch. It was awkward, but he’d manage.

“Climb on my back. Hold tight and _don’t_ choke me.”

“Climb on... ?” Another glare sent the bard scurrying to his side. “Right. Yes. Okay.” He hesitated again before placing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. “It’s just... I may not be a Witcher, but I’m not exactly a small man...”

Geralt cut off the argument by grabbing the man’s thighs and hoisting him bodily onto his back. The bard yelped and scrabbled to wrap his arms around Geralt’s neck. Thankfully he wasn’t idiot enough to disobey the no-choking rule.

With the bard’s face beside his ear, Geralt could hear when the man swallowed thickly. “Wow. That was... Get a lot of exercise, do you?”

“No more talking,” Geralt ordered as he grabbed one of the vines hanging over the ledge. It stretched to the back of the cave, weaving in and out of cracks in the stone, and it held firm when Geralt gave an experimental tug. Keeping a tight grip, he backed toward the cliff’s edge.

When he knelt and extended his boot over the side, seeking his first purchase, the bard buried his face in Geralt’s neck. His panting breaths felt hot in comparison to the wind that whipped them as they pushed away from the shelter of the cave.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpered.

Geralt’s muscles already burned as he lowered them the first arm’s length, but he’d dealt with far worse. When he released the vine with his other hand to lower them farther, he spared a brief moment to squeeze the bard’s forearm. The man didn’t respond, but his next exhale seemed to come a little slower.

“At least let me buy you dinner,” he murmured against Geralt’s skin.

Geralt bared his teeth at the rock before him. “Fine. Now shut up.”

“You don’t want a song to climb to?”

“ _Shut it, bard_.”


	14. Silver and Gold (Established)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt form an anonymous user on Tumblr: Jaskier tells geralt how pretty and cute he is all the time - geralt gets mad and is like STOP LYING NO IM NOT bc witcher stigma u kno and jask is like BUT YOU ARE!?

The first night on the road is always Jaskier’s favorite. He’s just coming off a night or two of real sleep in a real bed; their coin purse is full from his singing and Geralt’s witchering; and out in the wilderness, he can be as loud as he wants when Geralt does that thing with his hips that makes him see Melitele herself.

When he’s caught his breath and his limbs have stopped trembling, he can prop himself on an elbow and feast his eyes on a sight beyond any wonder in any realm: his lover in moonlight.

Of course, Geralt is beautiful in any light. But in moonlight, especially full moonlight, his love is _otherworldly_. His pale skin glows like the sheen on a pearl. His hair carves whirls and swoops of silver filigree into the dark of the bedroll. And his eyes--gods, his eyes--the finest gold, more pure, more molten than any nugget a miner could pull from the ground.

Geralt’s eyes are closed, but as Jaskier continues to stare, they slit open, allowing him a peek at their brilliance.

“You’re composing again,” Geralt huffs.

“Of course I am. What artist wouldn’t find inspiration in such perfection?”

Geralt snorts and lets his eyes fall closed again.

“ _King, keep your crown_ ,” Jaskier croons. “ _Dragon, you hoard / I’ve found the finest / in silver and gold_.”

“Doesn’t rhyme.”

“It’s a first draft!”

“You sound like you’re going to sell me by the ounce.”

“Perhaps I should.” Jaskier leans down and bites on a mouthful of thick pectoral. “Or by the pound. String you up in the butcher’s window.”

“Makes more sense than a jeweler’s shop.”

“Nonsense.” Jaskier punctuates his reply with soft kisses on the mark he’s left. “You’re precious. Priceless.”

"You can gild a cheap cup. It’s still just battered tin beneath.”

Frowning, Jaskier scoots himself up the bedroll until his face hovers just over Geralt’s. “You’re a golden goblet.”

Geralt huffs, his breath warm on Jaskier’s skin.

“A silver chalice.”

Geralt’s lips twitch down at their corners. “Enough.”

“You don’t believe it?”

Golden eyes reveal themselves slowly beneath a furrowed brow, the expression of a man losing patience with folly. “Only a fool would believe the lies of a bard.”

“And only a greater fool would disbelieve the truth,” Jaskier retorts.

That earns him a glare and his arse dumped on the hard ground as Geralt shoves away and turns to his side, as if showing his back to Jaskier will deter him. The move just allows Jaskier to mold his chest against all that delicious muscle and press soft kisses at Geralt’s nape.

“ _Kings, keep your crowns_ ,” he sings as he slips his hand over Geralt’s waist and up to his chest. “ _In my arms I hold / a treasure more precious / than silver and gold_.”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

The words are muttered into the bedroll, but Jaskier can hear how Geralt’s voice gentles, can feel how his muscles soften.

“ _Stars in his hair_ ,” he murmurs in Geralt’s ear. “ _Flames in his eyes / I can see heaven / when I’m ’twixt his thighs_.”

And then Geralt is snorting again. His shoulders shake with silent laughter, as much as he tries to hide it, and Jaskier grins against his skin.

And in that moment, the night is perfect again.


	15. Gossip (Outsider POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the incredible Professor Silver Fox Jaskier art that daryshkart posts on Tumblr.

“Well, he’s back,” Rowan announced as he dropped his books on their usual table and dropped himself into his usual seat.

Lucien didn’t look up from his lute (no surprise there), but Merienna’s eyes widened and she immediately dove into her pack to find her well-worn notebook and a quill. She flipped through her pages of obsessive notes until she found a blank page.

“Where did you see him?” she demanded. “Was he with the professor? How close were they standing?”

Rowan groaned. “Melitele’s tits, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Too late now,” Merienna replied with a grin. “I’ll just keep hounding you until you answer.”

“You’re never going to convince me they’re fucking,” Rowan retorted.

“They are. They so are. Don’t you think so, Luce?”

“I think it’s worse than that,” Lucien replied in his absent, dreamy way. His fingers never paused on his lute’s strings. “I think they’re in love.”

“How is that worse?” Merienna asked.

“Because the Witcher will watch the professor age and die.” The tune Lucien strummed fell into a minor key, low and haunting. “He’ll live years and years without him.”

“Oh,” Merienna murmured. “That’s sad.”

Rowan snorted. “Come off it. Witchers don’t feel, not like we do. Sure, he’s fond of the professor, but it’s a bit like having a favorite dog, innit? You miss it when it’s gone, but you always knew that’s how it would end.”

Merienna glared at him. “I think you’re the one that doesn’t feel, you ass.”

Before he could respond, Lucien’s wandering lute settled onto a new path, the opening of a tune not in progress but fully mature.

“The fairer sex they often call it,” he crooned.

As always, a sort of spell settled over them as it did whenever Lucien sang. His voice rose and fell, pulsing with the emotion he so rarely showed in their daily lives. The rest of the room fell away, and the three of them fell headlong into the heartbreak. When Lucien played the final note, Merienna’s eyes were bright and even Rowan had to sniff back a sudden heaviness.

“Is that yours, Luce?” Merienna asked, her usually flamboyant voice soft for once. 

Lucien dropped his eyes and shook his head. His fingers went back to teasing out fragments of melody. “It’s the professor’s.”

“I’ve never heard it,” Rowan insisted.

“I don’t think he plays it in public anymore.”

“Then how did you…?”

“I went to his office late one night. I heard it from out in the hall. When I went in…” Lucien shifted uncomfortably on his chair, and the lute let out an uncharacteristically false note. “I think he’d been crying.”

“And you never said anything?” Merienna demanded, back to full volume. “When was this?”

Lucien squinted at the ceiling. “Three years ago?”

“Three years!” Merienna seemed set to scold, but then she suddenly snatched up her notebook and flipped through the pages. “That was when the Witcher didn’t show for a whole term, remember? We all thought he was dead!” She thrust the notebook across the table to Lucien. “Write down the lyrics. I want to know every word.” 

Luicen’s lute went silent. His eyes focused on hers in a way he couldn’t normally manage. “No.” 

Rowan felt his eyebrows lift as Merienna’s scrunched down. It wasn’t often Lucien expressed a strong opinion about anything, but the word fell firmly from his lips.

After a moment, he lowered his gaze and hunched over his lute. “It’s private,” he added in a murmur.

“He’s right, Meri,” Rowan agreed, and Lucien snuck him a grateful glance.

Merienna huffed and sighed but pulled back the notebook and closed it. Then she smirked at Rowan. “I can’t believe you compared the professor to a dog. If I tell him, he’ll dock your mark for sure.”

“Then I’ll just tell him about all the doodles you’ve made of him and the Witcher in that notebook,” Rowan shot back.

Merienna gasped and smacked him with the book, but her cheeks flushed red. Lucien chuckled softly, and his lute sang along with its own lilting laughter.


	16. Nightmares (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt for with-souls-made-of-flames on Tumblr: May I ask for Jaskier suffering from terrible nightmares after the mountain?

Waking to sounds of human distress had become part of Geralt’s life once he found Ciri. Her nightmares were frequent and… upsetting. To both of them. Geralt wasn’t accustomed to being a source of comfort, but he’d learned that opening his arms as he had in the woods and letting her tuck herself against his chest was often enough to settle her back to sleep.

But when he opened his eyes this time and looked across the fire, Ciri’s eyes were closed, her breaths even. The panting and soft cries came from the bard already tucked against his side. He knew Jaskier had been caught up in the war, as most people on the continent had, but when they’d reunited, they’d both been too focused on navigating their fragile reconciliation to discuss it.

But now tears streamed from beneath the man’s eyelids, and he chanted a low chorus of “nononononono” as his head whipped side to side. Geralt put a hand on his shoulder and shook lightly. When that didn’t work, he slid his fingers to cup Jaskier’s warm neck. The bard shot upright, flailing dangerously close to the fire, until Geralt hauled him back with arms around his waist.

“It’s all right,” he said as Jaskier stared up at him, gulping air. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed. He curled over his knees, burying his face in his hands. Though he made no sound, his shoulders continued to shake.

Geralt looked over him and saw that Ciri’s eyes had opened; she watched him with a steady gaze. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

She blinked at him with a small frown and then wriggled her way out of her bed roll. She circled the fire and then, to his surprise, wedged herself to kneel between him and Jaskier. Curling her hand around one of Jaskier’s calves, she leaned against the bard.

“Stop saying that,” she said to Geralt.

Geralt frowned back at her. “What?”

“That it’s all right,” she replied. “It’s not. It’s horrible and awful and wrong. And it…” Geralt’s jaw clenched as tears filled her eyes. “It _hurts_. And we’ll cry about it if we want to.”

A choked sob left her, and she tucked her face into Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier responded immediately, shifting to wrap his arms around her and press his cheek to the crown of her head. He didn’t speak, offering no sweet words of comfort as Geralt had expected; he simply held Ciri and let his own tears dampen her hair.

Geralt didn’t remember what it was like to cry, how it felt. He’d grown numb to the horrors of battlefields and mangled bodies. Looking at the two humans he cared for, with their open and exposed pain, made him…

It made him want to run. It made him want to leave and find his way back to what should have been his Path, alone and needing no one and with no one needing him.

But then Ciri peeked at him with her weeping eyes. And he watched a tear slide down Jaskier’s jaw. And he knew that he would never walk away from either of them again.

He shifted toward them, slow and hesitant, until Jaskier reached out and grabbed at a handful of his shirt to tug him closer. He settled behind the bard, holding him close to his chest as he held Ciri. He felt lost and helpless in the face of their grief.

But he stayed.


	17. Keep Your Chin Up (Omegaverse AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Q. Hello!! For omegaverse I kinda wanna see it reversed. Geralt as being this strong omega and Jaskier being this smaller alpha. Geralt seriously neglects his omega part and Jask isn’t having it. No mpreg and no smut necessary, just fluff :))
> 
> I've never written a/b/o fic before, so this is me just messing about with the parts I find interesting.

Getting chased out of a place while being pelted by rotten food, insults, and the occasional stone wasn’t new for Jaskier. He was a bard, and there was no accounting for taste, especially in the more parochial parts of the continent. More than that, he was an alpha, so criticism in no way cowed or deterred him. He was more likely to snap back with equally sharp words when provoked, which admittedly had gotten him into a fair bit of trouble over the years.

When he’d first started traveling with Geralt, he hadn’t given much thought to the man’s gender; a Witcher would of course be used to extensive travel and thus surely knew how to handle any needs that might arise. As far as Jaskier was concerned, that was the end of it. He wasn’t exactly a stereotypical example of his own gender, so he never made assumptions of other people based on something so inconsequential.

And yet, he couldn’t help but be surprised by Geralt’s response when some backwater village not only refused to pay him but responded to his aid with jeers and thrown rocks. Jaskier was already hurling jibes and a handful or two of mud when Geralt took him firmly by the arm and all but dragged him out of the town. The bard then spent an hour or so spitting an increasingly inventive diatribe as they walked, and he was seriously considering putting it to music when he realized just how quiet Geralt had been.

At first he’d chalked it up to Geralt’s taciturn nature, but something in the man’s posture, a slight slump of his shoulders, the way his gaze stayed on the road, seemed different. He’d left that town without even a peep of protest at the mistreatment he’d suffered. Jaskier discreetly scented the air, and his stomach twisted when he detected a sour note in Geralt’s usual smell.

He’d had a friend in university, an omega, who’d been struggling in one of her poetry classes. One day her absolute bastard of a professor had ripped her latest piece to shreds in front of the entire class and questioned why she was wasting all of their time. Jaskier had found her afterward, nearly catatonic and reeking of deep-seated shame at the intense disapproval. He’d spent hours with her in his arms whispering praise and assurances until he finally persuaded her to seek her bed.

Geralt certainly wasn’t catatonic; anyone who didn’t know him, who hadn’t spent weeks and months traveling at his side, would see the same intimidating Witcher as always. Those same people thought that all the soldiers and great warriors of the land were brave alphas when in reality, the fiercest fighters were often omegas: omegas sworn to protect, omegas sworn to obey, omegas who sought the accolades and admiration of the people they served.

Witchers were sworn to protect humanity, and all they received in return was disgust and disdain and distrust.

And suddenly Jaskier could see that Geralt was _withering_ under it.

He forced himself to quell his own instincts, which made him want to treat Geralt like he had his university friend. If he offered himself up for a cuddle, he’d get another punch in the gut if he was lucky. Instead he pulled his lute from his back to his front and began to fiddle with a new melody.

“The next song I write is sure to be a hit,” he proclaimed. Geralt ignored him, as he’d expected, but that did nothing to dampen his entirely sincere enthusiasm.

“You fought a wyvern, Geralt! An actual wyvern. And it was huge! I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes!”

He let his steps weave just slightly closer to the Witcher, and he focused all his thoughts and feelings on his admiration for his companion. “You were magnificent, by the way. I don’t know how you do it. For such a slab of pure muscle, you are unfairly quick on your feet. When it snapped at you and you dove under it to slash its tail… it was poetry, Geralt! Sheer poetry in motion!”

Geralt clenched his jaw in annoyance, but from the corner of his eye, Jaskier could see that the tension in his shoulders had loosened just a fraction. The Witcher drew in a deep breath that had to be practically saturated with the scent of Jaskier’s approval, and they loosened a tiny bit more.

“The White Wolf and the Wyvern,” Jaskier continued. “It’s got a nice alliterative ring to it. A tale of heroics and triumph to top even your previous victories, hard as that is to achieve. People are going to accuse me of making up the whole thing if you keep performing incredible feats of that magnitude.”

Geralt snorted, and the sound was a balm to Jaskier’s heart. “You do make up the whole thing.”

“I do not!” he retorted. “You can’t be humble about this one, my friend. I saw how amazing you were firsthand.”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt grumbled, but he was holding his head a little higher.

As he always should. As he always would, if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

The whole damn continent would acknowledge what a treasure Geralt of Rivia truly was, even if Jaskier had to sing himself hoarse in every tavern and town to do it.


	18. Just Between You and Me... and You (Established, pre-triad)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr, who wanted some Geraskefer.
> 
> **Content warning for the emetophobic.**

Running footsteps and panting breaths reached Yennefer’s ears just before a melodramatic moan.

“Oh, gods, it’s you.”

Yennefer felt her teeth grind at the sound of the bard’s voice, but she didn’t look up from where she struggled with the bracer on Geralt’s arm. When the laces continued to knot beneath her fingers, she sat back with a curse.

“Get this fucking thing off him,” she snapped.

“You want me to help you strip an unconscious man,” the bard retorted, but he immediately knelt at Geralt’s side. “How in character for you.”

Whether the bard had nimble fingers or years of practice helping Geralt with his armor, the bracer came off in his hand with annoying ease. As Yennefer had guessed, the creature they’d fought had penetrated the armor with its teeth, gouging the skin beneath. The wound weeped blood and a thick, oily yellow matter whose stench made the bard gag and bury his nose in his sleeve.

“Fuck,” he choked. “What did that?”

As she gathered her skirts to stand, Yennefer didn’t spare a glance toward the sprawled corpse of the sorcerer she’d killed. “The arsehole had some kind of mutated pet.”

She turned and walked a few paces away before opening a portal to the storeroom of her shop.

“You’re leaving?” the bard accused.

“Try not to be an idiot for once in your life,” she snapped over her shoulder as she stepped through the portal and began scanning the shelves of potions and ointments. When she found the one she wanted, she rejoined the men waiting on the blood-stained grass and let the portal close.

“Tip his head back,” she instructed.

“And now we’re drugging an unconscious man,” the bard muttered, but it was beneath his breath and he wasted no time settling Geralt against his chest with his head leaned against his shoulder.

She forced all of the potion through Geralt’s slack lips and throat, and then they waited in silence. Apparently the bard could hold his tongue. Seconds turned to minutes, and still Geralt didn’t wake. Still the wound didn’t stop seeping. And Geralt’s breaths changed to hoarse wheezing. With slightly trembling fingers, Yennfer reached out to feel the pulse pounding in his throat.

“Yennefer…” the bard whispered.

“Shut up,” she barked. “I’m trying to count.”

But touch alone told her that Geralt’s heart was racing much too quickly.

“Fuck,” she spat. “Why the fuck is his heart so fast? He’s a Witcher, for fuck’s sake.”

“Maybe it’s the potion,” Jaskier replied. At her glare, he rolled his eyes. “Not yours. _His_. He probably took something before the fight, right?”

As much as she wanted to snap at him again, the possibility of an interaction between the potions was a very real one. Jumping to her feet, she reopened her portal and dashed back to her shop.

“When does he take them?” she called back to the bard. “How soon before a fight?”

“Usually right before,” Jaskier called back.

She nodded to herself and snatched up two bottles and a bucket, which she thrust at Jaskier when she returned to them.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

She didn’t bother to respond; she just forced Geralt to drink from one of the bottles. Almost instantly, he let out a ragged gasp and then lurched forward to vomit into the bucket. He gagged and choked and spat, still half-unconscious, as Jaskier and Yennfer struggled to keep him upright, one to each side. Once he seemed done, Yennfer pressed the other bottle–another healing potion–on him. He resisted feebly but settled when Jaskier murmured his name and stroked his sweaty brow. When Geralt finished drinking, he curled instinctively into the bard, resting his cheek against the other man’s throat.

“Jaskier?” he mumbled. 

“I’m here,” the bard replied, and his voice was so low, so soft and gentle, so unlike the brash performer, so unlike anything Yennfer had ever heard. It made her throat feel strangely tight.

The sensation only increased when she heard Geralt’s whispered “Yenn…?”

“She’s here too,” Jaskier said. He met Yennefer’s gaze and then looked pointedly down at Geralt’s hand, which was fumbling through the grass as though searching for something.

She hesitated just a moment before taking the wandering hand in her own. As soon as she did, Geralt let out a soft sigh.

“That’s right,” Jaskier crooned. “It’s all right now. We’re both here. We’re going to take care of you.”

He looked up at Yennfer again, and she knew he was encouraging her to speak, to add her voice to the tale of comfort he was weaving around the wounded man. But the tight feeling had spread from her throat to her chest; it made her eyes sting. She could only nod, which was silly since Geralt couldn’t see her.

But Jaskier did, and for a brief moment, his eyes went soft for _her_. She looked quickly away but didn’t relinquish her hold on Geralt’s hand. She closed her eyes when the bard continued his soothing whispered nothings and let his voice ease the peculiar ache in her heart.


	19. Useless (aka Ciri Is So Done with These Losers) (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous use on Tumblr who requested Geralt trying to woo Jaskier.

For the third time in as many minutes, Ciri let out a heavy sigh. Ignoring her hadn’t stopped it, so this time Geralt shot her a frown that promised undisclosed consequences if she didn’t start exhibiting some patience. She gazed back at him with the unimpressed countenance of a woman tiring of a man’s foolishness. Before traveling with her, he wouldn’t have guessed girls mastered it by thirteen but neither could he deny they usually had cause.

“You’re terrible at this,” Ciri told him.

Geralt let out a long breath through his nose and set the belt knife he’d been examining back on the merchant’s table. “At what?” he asked in as calm a voice as he could muster. He was the adult, after all; he would display maturity even if she could not.

“Wooing.”

At the merchant’s snort of laughter, Geralt glared at the man, who at least had the sense to cringe back. Geralt turned and stalked off, and Ciri followed close on his heels. He was torn between being grateful that she obeyed his command to stay close to him and being annoyed that he would be forced to listen to whatever was coming next.

“That is what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right about that. Were you seriously going to give him a belt knife?”

His hands clenched at his sides; she couldn’t possibly have known he had been browsing the marketplace for a gift for Jaskier. He’d barely acknowledged the idea to himself. “I’m not giving anything to anyone.”

“That’s the problem,” Ciri sighed. “You’re just like my grandmother. She used to barely look at Eist in court because she knew everyone would see how much she loved him. As if that would be some terrible crime.”

He stopped walking the moment she put her hand on his arm, gentle as it was. She looked up at him with determined eyes. “We’ll reach the last crossroads before the mountains tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t ask him to come with us to Kaer Morhen tonight, we won’t see him all winter.”

“ _I know_.”

“Well?” Ciri prodded. “You don’t want that, do you?”

He knew his lack of response was answer enough when her lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile. “Right,” she said with a nod. “Come on then.”

Which is how Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the famed White Wolf, found himself trailing a teenage princess through a rural marketplace, probably looking every bit as lost as he felt.

It was also how he found himself sitting at a table in the middle of a second room at the inn (which they could barely afford), freshly bathed, wearing his cleanest clothes, and trying to figure out whether he could convince a teenage princess that he had urgent business elsewhere.

When he heard the door handle turn, he knew it was too late.

Some deep-seated chivalric instinct had him rising to his feet, which was ridiculous since it was just Ciri and Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t even looking at him; he was glancing back toward the hallway.

“I could’ve sworn our room was-”

His words cut off as Ciri steered him into the room, arm tucked in his. Blue eyes went wide at the table spread with roast chicken, honeyed apples, fresh bread with real butter, and a bottle and two goblets of rich red wine. Geralt’s face felt warm as those eyes turned on him.

“What’s all this?” Jaskier asked with a smile.

“Geralt will explain,” Ciri told him, and her pointed glance at Geralt suggested there would be hell to pay if he didn’t do a sufficient job. “I’m off to bed. Good night, Jaskier.” And with a quick kiss to the bard’s cheek, she was gone, closing the door behind her.

And then Geralt was left alone, facing down Jaskier’s curiously raised eyebrow.

“Hmm.” Geralt gestured to the chair across from him. “Won’t you sit down?”

Jaskier snorted a laugh at his stiff formality and dropped into the chair with relaxed ease. He eagerly filled his plate, moaning appreciatively at the smells and steam that wafted from the feast. “Is this why you two were in the market so long?” he asked.

“Partly,” Geralt said as he sat down and collected his share of the food.

Jaskier nodded. “Wanted one last good meal before braving the mountains, eh? Can’t say I blame you, but why isn’t Ciri joining us?”

“She… thought we might appreciate a night of adult conversation.”

Jaskier laughed again. “As if she’s not the most mature of the three of us. Gods, when I was her age, I could barely dress myself, and she’s waltzed across half the continent.”

“She can be determined,” Geralt said as he took a sip of his wine.

“That’s her grandmother in her.” Jaskier flashed him a sudden grin, his eyes merry with the enjoyment of good food and good wine. He had the breathless, delighted look he usually only had at balls and banquets, but tonight it was for Geralt alone. 

“Did I ever tell you about the duel that broke out at Ciri’s eighth birthday celebration?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he launched into the story. That tale led to another and then another, and Geralt found himself relaxing into the evening, savoring the chance to enjoy this side of the bard without having to share him with a ballroom full of simpering nobles.

As they finished their meal, Jaskier poured the last of the wine into their goblets and then raised his in a toast. “I’m going to miss you both,” he admitted. “And I hope our paths cross early in the spring.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, and he drained his glass. When he lowered it, Jaskier was just staring into his, fiddling with the stem, a soft frown creasing his brow.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

The man looked up with a forced smile and placed his glass down without drinking. “Right. Well, I imagine you’ll want to get an early start in the morning.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Was the room just rented for supper? Should we clear the dishes?” He began stacking the plates and utensils, and Geralt was seized by a sudden panic when he turned to leave the room.

“Wait.” Geralt rose and crossed the room, taking the plates Jaskier had gathered and setting them back on the table. He fumbled a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of velvet. “Here,” he said and thrust it into Jaskier’s hand.

A little of Jaskier’s earlier smile returned as he unwrapped the velvet. When he saw the gilded pendant, he sucked in a surprised breath. It was a simple circle, not unlike a smaller version of Geralt’s Witcher medallion, but with the outline of a lute sculpted into the metal rather than a wolf. Ciri had picked all the food and wine and arranged the room, but Geralt had chosen this gift himself.

“I couldn’t afford the chain as well,” he apologized, and he waved to the leather tie–one of the ones he kept for his hair–threaded through a loop in the pendant.

Jaskier’s eyes glowed in the candlelight when he met Geralt’s gaze again. “It’s beautiful.” He laughed a little as he put it on and patted it with satisfaction as it settled above his heart. “Perfect really. I feel bad that I didn’t think to do the same. It would be nice to think you had something to remember me by during the winter. Ciri too obviously.”

Geralt shook his head. “No. That’s not… that wasn’t my intention.”

“No?” Jaskier raised that damnable eyebrow again, and Geralt knew he had to speak now or lose his chance.

“We want you to come with us.”

Jaskier’s other eyebrow rose as well. “To Kaer Morhen? Am I… Is that allowed?”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s not like they can kick me out of the Witchers.”

Jaskier laughed. “True. I…” He hesitated again, one hand fiddling nervously with the necklace. “Are you sure?” he finally asked. “I mean, if this is Ciri’s doing, I can explain it to her. I figured you’d be looking forward to some peace and quiet.”

“The thought doesn’t hold the appeal it once did,” Geralt told him. “Not compared to what I’d have to give up.”

He’d learned that lesson the hard way after the disastrous dragon hunt that left him feeling more alone than he ever had before.

“Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier breathed, like it was a place out of legend. To most of the Continent, Geralt supposed it was. “That sounds incredible. It _would_ be incredible.”

“Then you’ll come?”

After a moment biting his lip, Jaskier grinned. “Yes. Yes, of course! I’d love to go.”

Feeling a bit of a smile on his own lips, Geralt nodded. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Good,” Jaskier agreed with a laugh. “Me too.” He clutched the necklace in his fist. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a minute, neither of them said anything further. They just looked at each other, caught in a thin slice of time–the second of stillness between one step and the next, the moment a glass tips at the edge of a table but before it falls, the chink in a cloud the instant before sunlight pours through.

Then the door creaked open, and Ciri peeked her head inside. When she saw them just standing there, not touching, not moving, (not kissing?), she rolled her eyes and groaned. 

“You’re useless,” she groused. “Both of you.”

Geralt bolted to chase her from the room, and Jaskier’s bright laughter followed them down the hall.


	20. The Worst Monsters (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Jaskier being affected by a spell causing terror... geralt trying to look after him even while jaskier is deathly afraid of him
> 
> **Content warning: suggested child abuse**

As Geralt and Jaskier rounded the final bend in the path, the bard let out a low whistle, and the Witcher had to agree. The country estate where his current job awaited was lovely in the late-spring sun. The whole long walk from the nearest village had been pleasant, through rolling green fields fragrant with the scent of growing things, but before the estate house itself, the tree-lined boulevard gave way to a carefully cultivated garden. Pruned hedges guarded flower beds vibrant with color, and among the decorative topiaries, a flock of peacocks bobbed and cooed, unaffected by the magic that had driven the house’s human occupants away.

An arm linked through Geralt’s, and Jaskier grinned at him. “Do have a word with the gardener, darling,” he simpered with an affected accent and batted eyelashes. “The swan in that bush looks more like a goose.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to reply, knowing Jaskier was more than capable of enacting an entire farce all on his own.

“My word,”Jaskier continued, “what shall we serve when the local priestess comes to call? If the cook dredges up more of that horrid wilted watercress, I shall simply die of embarrassment.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Geralt said drily.

Jaskier laughed. “What, this isn’t your greatest fantasy? To set me up in a rich, luxurious manor house so I can entertain all of your important associates?”

“I don’t have important associates,” Geralt reminded him.

After a theatrical gasp, Jaskier pressed his hand to his heart. “You lied to me about all of your business dealings?” He raised his hand to his eye to wipe away an imaginary tear. “My mother was right about you.”

“And I suppose this is your great fantasy?”

Jaskier snorted. “Gods, no. I ran fast and far from this sort of shit and never looked back.” He released Geralt’s arm and skipped ahead to walk backward with arms spread wide. “Give me the open road! The freedom and glory that spur creative genius!” He winked at Geralt. “And a man who smells of horse and onion.”

Geralt shook his head but felt his lips twitch up at the edges. He left Jaskier clucking at the peacocks and continued on the path to the pair of large wooden doors set in the stone wall. His medallion lay quiet against his chest, even this close to the house. Behind him, a peacock hissed and Jaskier yelped, and then the bard was jogging up to join him at the entrance. Jaskier squinted up into the bright sun at the leaded glass of the second-floor windows.

“Do you really think it’s haunted?” he asked.

“More likely cursed.”

“Can you curse a building this large?”

“No. Curses require a focus. Usually a person or an object.”

Jaskier turned to look at him. “So you’re going to search through that whole house and try to find one cursed object?”

“That was the plan.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jaskier leaned back against the door. “How will you even know it? Will it affect you?”

“It should affect the medallion.”

Jaskier’s gaze flicked down to it and then raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re going to walk through a castle waving your medallion and hoping you find whatever is causing all this fuss?” 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “Wait here.”

Before he could push the door open, Jaskier had latched onto his arm again. “You know,” the bard drawled, “there is an easier way to find the source of this curse.”

Geralt shot him a glare. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “The curse clearly affects humans. I’ll come in with you, and when I get spooked, you’ll know we’re near what you’re looking for.”

“The family that lives here wasn’t just spooked, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “They were half out of their minds with terror.”

Jaskier waved a hand with a disdainful huff. “Pampered lords and ladies who wouldn’t know a manticore from a wyvern. _I_ , on the other hand, have spent more than half my life traveling with a Witcher. I’ve seen more monsters than a place like this has laughingly embellished family portraits.”

“What you’ve seen isn’t the point,” Geralt countered. “The curse will act directly on your emotions.”

“Well,” Jaskier said as his hand reached down to turn the doorknob, “if I wet my trousers, we’ll just use the coin we earn to buy me new ones.” And then he slipped away from Geralt and into the darkened foyer.

Geralt could feel his teeth grinding, but he had no choice but to follow. The inside of the house looked no more threatening than the outside. None of the candles were lit, but the windows let in more than enough light. Jaskier was already in the next room, some kind of library, running his fingers along the spines of books and the edges of bookshelves. He glanced at the dust on his fingers and then rubbed his hands together.

“Have a word with the maid after the gardener, love.”

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked. His medallion was still quiet.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’m not loving the carpet, but I don’t think it’s cursed.”

“Hmm.”

They continued on around the lower floor, through a drawing room, the dining room, a formal parlor, and the kitchen. Jaskier even ventured down into the root cellar but said he felt nothing but an itchy nose from the musty smell. Finally they had circled back almost to the front entrance with nothing left to search except the staircase that led upstairs. They stood at the base, contemplating the polished stone steps, until Jaskier nodded definitively.

“Right then,” he said, and he grabbed the wooden railing and raised his foot to the first stair.

He threw himself back so quickly that he slammed into Geralt. He whirled to face the Witcher with wild eyes, and Geralt put his arms around him, frowning at the sudden paleness of the bard’s face.

“Oh, shit,” Jaskier breathed. “Wow. I… fuck. I really don’t want to go up there.”

“Then don’t. Wait outside.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Just give me a minute.” He took one deep breath and then another and then opened his eyes to smile wanly up at Geralt. “See? I can absolutely handle this.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“No, I’m not giving up that easily.” Jaskier pushed against Geralt’s chest until Geralt released him. “I can actually be useful to you on a contract for once. And I’m not in any physical danger, am I?” When Geralt didn’t answer, Jaskier smacked his shoulder. “Am I?”

“No,” Geralt agreed reluctantly.

“Okay then.” He grabbed Geralt’s hands and laced their fingers tightly together. “Here we go.”

Geralt let Jaskier lead the way. He expected the bard to hesitate before the first step, but he hurried up that one and then kept going, and Geralt had to scramble to stay with him. Jaskier’s eyes were wide again, and he whipped his head from side to side as if expecting an attack at any moment. His panting was loud in Geralt’s ears; the hand he held in his was quickly slick with sweat. When they reached the top of the staircase, he let out a choked cry and huddled against Geralt’s chest. Geralt held him close, stroking through his hair.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Jaskier let out another strangled sound against Geralt’s armor, but he nodded.

“Can you tell where the fear is coming from?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier gestured vaguely behind him, then snatched his hand back against his body as if afraid something would grab it.

“Okay,” Geralt soothed. “Why don’t you go back downstairs?”

But when he put his hands on Jaskier’s arms in a prelude to guiding him down, Jaskier clutched at him tighter. 

“No, fuck,” he gasped. “Don’t let go. Don’t leave me alone, Geralt. _Please_.”

Geralt clenched his jaw. “We’re leaving. I’ll come back later.”

“No.” Jaskier raised his head, and though his face was pale and his jaw was trembling, his eyes held Geralt’s steadily. “We’re almost there.”

“Jaskier,” he barked, “you don’t have to prove anything.” He gave the bard a small shake. “Not to me.”

Jaskier huffed a weak laugh. “Full of yourself, aren’t you? Maybe I want to prove something to me.”

Before Geralt could think of a suitable answer, Jaskier was pulling him down the corridor. If he focused, Geralt could hear his heartbeat getting faster and faster, and Jaskier clutched at him with white-knuckled hands. As they neared the door at the end of the hall, Jaskier bit down on his lip, stifling soft whimpers. He began to struggle, twisting his body as if trying to run from Geralt while at the same time still holding onto him with all his strength. Then he suddenly lunged away, diving into the last room in the corridor and slamming the door behind him.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted. He pounded on the door with his fist, eyeing the heavy bolt. When he realized it locked from the outside, he tried the handle. The door swung open and banged against the wall.

Jaskier screamed. He huddled in the far corner of the room, whole body shaking, arms wrapped around his head. When Geralt hurried toward him, the door behind him slammed shut and Jaskier screamed again. Geralt rushed back to the door, and this time it held firm, the exterior bolt trapping them inside.

He whipped around, eyes scanning the room. A canopied bed, shelves lined with trinkets, a pair of dolls on the floor… it all seemed to belong to a little girl.

“Jaskier! Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“Get away!” Jaskier shouted at him. “Stay away from me!”

“Jaskier!”

He tried to step toward the bard, but Jaskier jumped up and ran to the window. He clawed at the glass and then punched it. Geralt winced, but Jaskier’s face didn’t register any pain despite the dull thud that must have been hell on his knuckles. He just twisted sideways and began ramming his elbow against the window instead.

“Fuck,” Geralt spat. 

He swept through the room, grabbing everything he could get his hands on and dashing it against the floor or throwing it against the wall. He cleared the shelves with his arm; a wave of ceramic animals and porcelain tea cups crashed to shards at his feet. He snatched up the dolls and ripped off their heads. He pulled a knife from his belt and ripped through the mattress.

His head jerked up at the sound of glass breaking. Wind whipped through the hole Jaskier had made in the window, and with frantic motions, he swung his forearm to knock more and more glass down to the grass far below them.

“Jaskier, stop!” Geralt yelled, but the sound of his voice made the bard cringe away and scrabble to climb onto the window’s ledge.

A horror that had nothing to do with any curse flooded through Geralt as Jaskier stood in front of the half-broken window. “Jaskier,” he pleaded. “Please. Please come down.”

Wide blue eyes stared back at him, and Jaskier’s chest heaved as he gulped for air. “D-door,” he stammered. 

With his hands raised, Geralt tried to creep toward him, but Jaskier’s foot slid along the ledge until it almost hung over the two stories of open air beneath. Geralt froze.

“Jaskier.” His voice cracked in the middle of his lover’s name.

Jaskier sucked in a desperate breath, and his face twisted, eyes screwed shut. “Break the fucking door!”

Geralt whirled and sprinted full tilt at the door, slamming his shoulder into the wood. He bashed himself against it again and again. When he collided with the edge where the bolt resisted on the other side, he heard a faint groan of twisting metal. He focused all his strength and energy on that spot, and the bolt began to give, squealing, shrieking, and finally shattering to fall in two pieces to the floor. The door flew open, and Geralt stumbled out into the hall. He nearly fell again as he scrambled to pivot back into the room.

Jaskier sat on the floor below the window, hands covering his face, shoulders shaking. Geralt ran to him and pulled the shuddering bard into his lap. He wrapped his arms around his lover and rocked him as they both struggled to catch their breath. Geralt’s shoulder ached from the impact with the door, and small cuts dotted Jaskier’s hands.

“Geralt?” Jaskier raised his head; a few more tears slipped down his cheeks. “What happened to the little girl that lived here?”

Geralt clenched his teeth and heaved a breath through his nose. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Jaskier leaned up and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “When you do,” he whispered, “don’t tell me. Okay?”

Geralt nodded, and they clung to each in the wreckage. Outside the broken window, birds sang in the trees and the sun shone brightly on the nodding flowers of the garden.


	21. The Cock Wouldn't Crow (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: Idk if you are still taking prompts, but if you are may I ask for Jaskier hearing someone talk shit about witchers/Geralt and flipping?
> 
> **Content warning: Kinda explicit? The "cock" in the title ain't a rooster.**

As a traveling bard, Jaskier had long, long since accepted that his performances would always be interrupted. As his songs had gotten more popular and he’d become more famous, he was lucky enough to hold the attention of many tavern crowds, but they were still in a tavern. Serving girls wove among the tables; people ate and drank and called for more; the front door slammed open and shut as patrons came and went. He barely noticed those kinds of distractions, and if he was doing his job well, his audience didn’t notice either.

Tonight he was doing his job very well. He had every person in the room eating out of his palm, and everywhere he looked, he saw bright, happy faces. He could hardly hear his lute as the whole place belted out the chorus to “Toss a Coin,” and he only wished Geralt was lurking in a corner to see and hear so many literally singing his praises. No matter. When he returned from killing the monster du jour, he’d receive generous recompense, a hot bath, and a warm meal and bed. Jaskier had made sure of that, and he knew Geralt valued such comforts far and away above songs sung in his honor.

He decided he was actually grateful that Geralt wasn’t present when a burly man rose from the bar, roughly grabbed a tray from a passing serving girl, and smashed the whole collection of glasses and tankards to the floor. The girl shrieked and stumbled back, and patrons at nearly tables had to duck to avoid flying debris. The whole place went silent, and Jaskier’s grin dissolved as he stilled his fingers on his lute.

“Enough of that shit,” the man demanded. He wasn’t drunk, as Jaskier had initially assumed; he spoke in a quiet, authoritative voice as if he hadn’t just frightened a poor girl half to death. “These good people don’t want to hear about mutant scum. Sing a song of honest toil if you must sing, not of monsters who kill for coin.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw, and his fingers tightened in a stranglehold on the neck of his lute. He glanced around the tavern; the people who had been singing so heartily before now looked down at their tables or went back to their drinks. No one seemed willing to contradict the man; he probably served some vital role in the small village, a merchant or smith they could ill afford to antagonize.

Fortunately, Jaskier didn’t have that problem.

He shot the man a bright smile and met his eyes as he gave a small bow. The man frowned at him, but then nodded back before retaking his seat. He did not help the serving girl pick up the broken glass. Jaskier began a new song, something benign and dull about harvests and singing birds. Soon conversation picked up again, and Jaskier moved to a space near the fireplace, settling in as background noise.

After two more songs, he stopped playing, and most of the crowd didn’t even notice. He made his way to the bar, ordered a glass of wine, and then sat on the stool beside the burly man. The man looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise, and Jaskier smiled at him. He turned on the stool just enough so he could lean into the man’s space.

“I should thank you,” he murmured. “You have no idea how tired I get of singing that shit.”

After a long, lingering look, the man’s eyebrows lowered, and he huffed a laugh. “Why do you do it then?”

“Price of fame,” Jaskier sighed. “I wrote that bloody song when I was eighteen, and at this point, I’m sure I’ll never escape it. I hate it, but…” He shrugged. “The coin is better when you give the people what they want.”

The man scowled. “You should have more self-respect.” He eyed Jaskier in a way that might have seemed distasteful if not for how his gaze lingered on his crotch. “Though I suppose you at least earn your coin with your hands and not on your back.”

Jasker threw back his head and laughed at if he’d never heard anything so witty. When he clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, the fool’s smirk oozed smugness. “Gods, you’re a gem,” Jaskier cooed. “In truth, I’d love to settle down someday and learn a decent trade.” This close to the man, his profession was clear from the distinct odor wafting off his clothes. “I always thought leatherworking seemed interesting.”

The man grinned. “Is that right? I happen to be a tanner myself.”

Jaskier opened his eyes wide. “You’re teasing me.” When the man laughed and shook his head, Jaskier glanced to the booth in the corner. “Can I buy you a drink? I’d love to hear all about it if you’re willing.”

“Well,” the man drawled, “what kind of man would I be if I didn’t encourage someone toward a path of good work?”

“What kind of man indeed?” Jaskier asked. He nodded to the corner. “I’ll be right there. Think hard about where to start. I want to to know absolutely everything.”

As the man swaggered off, Jaskier ordered a pint of ale and then reached into his belt pouch for a tiny vial, one of a set he’d bought from Yennefer’s shop. Even if he hated to admit it, some of her wares were just too tempting. She’d even given him a discount on this one, once he’d promised to use it well. He slipped a few drops into the pint and then braced himself for at least an hour of pretending to be fascinated by the details of dead animal skins.

He had just about exhausted his repertoire of simpering smiles and laughs when the man finally finished the pint. If his hand on Jaskier’s thigh was any indication, his concern for Jaskier’s honor had definite limits.

With a slight pout, Jaskier covered that hand with his. “I really should play a bit more,” he sighed, “or I might lose my room.” He traced an idle circle on the back of the man’s hand–Daniel, he’d said his name was. “I don’t suppose you’d like to wait for me? There’s so much more I’d love to hear from you.”

“Is that right?” Daniel leered. “And what if I’d rather know what your mouth can do?”

Jaskier giggled to hide his cringe at the terrible line. What an absolute gobshite. “That can be arranged.” He pulled his key from his pocket and handed it to Daniel. “Second on the right.” Then he leaned in despite the man’s pungent scent. “Please get started without me. Knowing you’re up there, all willing and… _hard_ at work with your honest hands…” He shivered theatrically.

The man winked as he slipped out of the booth and up the stairs. Jaskier let himself shiver for real and then went to collect his lute. The crowd looked around, noticed Daniel’s absence, and then let out a loud cheer as Jaskier stood among them again. He cheered with them and then launched into a series of lovely bawdy tunes.

Once he’d judged enough time had passed for the man upstairs to be getting desperate, he announced he’d be taking a short break but promised to return. Many expressed their disappointment, but when he announced he would sing a brand-new tune just for them, the crowd stamped and applauded with enthusiasm.

He hurried up the stairs, grinning to himself. Then he burst into his room with a cry of “Darling!” on his lips.

It took everything he had not to laugh at the man with trousers ’round his knees and his limp dick in his hand. The poor thing looked rubbed raw and red, though not nearly as red as Daniel’s face. He squirmed with embarrassment as Jaskier shut the door and appraised him with an unimpressed face.

“Is that it?” he drawled.

“I just…” Daniel stammered. “This isn’t… I just need another minute.”

“I doubt it,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door. “Looks like your ‘honest toil’ isn’t up to the task.”

“I can do it,” the man muttered, wincing as his fingers tugged ineffectually at his abused member. “Just wait, godsdammit.”

“Oh, my dear.” Jaskier sauntered toward him, bent down, and patted his cheek. “You should have more self-respect.”

At that, Daniel swallowed, shoved his dick back into his pants, and bolted for the door. Jaskier could hear his hurried footsteps all the way down the stairs, and a moment later, the door of the tavern slammed. He swanned back down to his waiting audience and took up his lute once again. With the idiot gone, they looked up at Jaskier with excited anticipation.

“Now like I said,” he told the hushed crowd, “I’d like to write a new song just for your lovely people. I truly hope you love it. In fact, I hope you love it so much that you will sing it every night long after I’m gone.”

And with that, he launched into the composition he’d had percolating in the back of his mind all evening. The crowd ate it up, and he sang it again and again until every person in the tavern, patron and serving girls alike, knew every single word. They were just finishing a final jaunty chorus when the door opened again. Jaskier grinned as Geralt entered, looking whole and unscathed after his hunt. He offered a wink to his lover and bellowed out the last lines of the song.

“Hey ho, his cock wouldn’t crow, and he couldn’t get up in the morning!” 

He bowed low as the crowd cheered. “Now remember! Sing that song often and well! I want everyone in this town to remember the friendly bard who entertained you this evening.”

He packed up his lute, smiling in satisfaction as he heard the various tables still humming snatches of the song. He slid onto the stool next to the one Geralt had claimed and pressed a firm kiss to his lover’s cheek.

“Enjoy yourself?” Geralt asked.

“Immensely,” Jaskier agreed. “Remind me to buy Yennefer a drink next time we see her.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow in question, but Jaskier only laughed.


	22. Mortal Wounds (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Imagine finding out Jaskier has cancer or some other serious disease like that. The angst potential alone...

“You’re sure it’s the same as before?” Geralt asks. He leans against the fireplace, watching as Yennefer, kneeling, runs her fingers over Jaskier’s neck and throat.

Jaskier, his head thrown back and his eyes wide, stares at the ceiling and grips the edge of the bed. “Oh, gods,” he mutters, “this isn’t happening.”

“It feels the same,” Yennefer answers. “When did it start?”

“A few weeks ago,” Geralt replies. “First a cough. Now he can’t sing more than an hour without losing his voice entirely.”

“A boon to the whole Continent,” Yennefer says, but she squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder as she rises gracefully to her feet.

“Oho, very funny,” Jaskier grumbles even as his hand rises to cover hers in a grateful gesture. “Let’s all mock the sick man, shall we?”

“I need to prepare a few things.” Yennefer looks to Geralt and then tilts her head toward the door, indicating he should follow. Geralt glances at Jaskier, who bites his lip but nods.

Yennefer pauses at the doorway. “You,” she says to Jaskier. “Doublet and shirt off. Boots too. Do not get mud on my bedspread.”

As they exit into the hall, Geralt closes the door behind them. He has every confidence in Yennefer’s abilities, but when he sees her with crossed arms and hunched shoulders, his slow heart beats faster.

“You can cure him,” he says, refusing to make it a question.

“This time, yes.”

A sick feeling begins to squirm in Geralt’s gut. “You think it could happen again.”

“It shouldn’t have happened now,” Yennefer snaps. She paces to the end of the hall and then back. “He was completely fine after Rinde. I don’t make mistakes about this kind of thing, Geralt.”

“I know.” Before she could pace away again, he put a hand on her arm. “What do we do?”

He watches as she takes a noticeably deep breath, recentering herself. “We got lucky. For whatever reason, the progress is slow right now. I can take the time to examine him thoroughly.”

Geralt huffs. “You call this lucky?”

Violet eyes narrow at him. “Compared to him suffocating in your arms while you’re too far away to get to me? Yes, I’d call this very lucky.”

The image that flashes through his mind is too vivid for him to hide his wince. Yennefer sighs and lays a hand against his jaw.

“I’ll send word to Triss,” she says. “She knew of a potion that could slow magical effects. We’ll learn to make it. Both of us.” A sharp fingernail pokes him in the chest. “And you will be certain that he has it with him always. No exceptions.”

At his nod, she steps back and heads to the stairs. “I’m going to change. If I’m going to lie in bed with your bard for several hours, I’d like to be comfortable.”

When Geralt returns to the bedroom, he finds Jaskier sitting against the headboard, shirtless and barefoot, his knees drawn up to his chest. The position marks him human, vulnerable, and Geralt’s heart stutters again.

“Where’s Yenn?” Jaskier asks as Geralt comes to sit beside him on the bed.

“She went to change.”

“And she needed your help with that?” Jaskier doesn’t meet his eyes as he threads their hands together. “What did she say?”

“She’s concerned this could happen again.”

Jaskier’s head drops against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt doesn’t resist the urge to press a kiss to his hair. “She’s not the only one,” the bard sighs.

Geralt tightens the clasp of their hands. “Jaskier,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t-”

Shooting upright, Jaskier presses his free hand against Geralt’s lips. “Oh, no. No, love. We are not doing apologies.”

Geralt frowns behind Jaskier’s fingertips. “The djinn-” he tries again.

“Was a right arsehole,” Jaskier cuts in. “That’s how those stories always go. They twist your wish to something you never intended.” He moves his hand to cup Geralt’s face. “You would never hurt me deliberately.”

One of Geralt’s eyebrows rises. “I punched you in the stomach the day we met.”

“I have that effect on people,” Jaskier says with a small smile. “And you have proven time and again since that you would move heaven and earth to protect me. As I would for you.” His smile widens as he brushes back a strand of Geralt’s hair. “Well, maybe not heaven _and_ earth. I’m not as strong as you. But one of the two certainly.”

Geralt leans in, and they share a long kiss, tainted slightly by fear but held steady by faith and love. As they part, Jaskier presses his forehead against Geralt’s. 

“You’ll stay during the healing?” he asks. “Make sure your ex doesn’t turn me into a newt or something?”

“I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

Jaskier leans back with another smile and raises their still-joined hands to lightly kiss Geralt’s knuckles. “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”


	23. What Did You Say? (Pre-slash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: For geraskier prompts, accidental confessions in the heat of battle?

When Jaskier grabbed him around the waist, Geralt wanted to yell at him, shout at him, swear at him, but all that crossed his lips was a low moan. His right thigh was a mangled mess, his vision was going blurry from blood loss, and the griffin was still circling. A shrill cry rent the air above the treetops; Jaskier’s litany of “ohfuckohfuckohfuck” joined with its echoes in a ludicrous, macabre duet.

When they would have stumbled over a tree root, Jaskier forced them forward with sheer will and muscle. A grunt left him, close to Geralt’s ear. He’d probably complain about being sore for a week. Geralt tested his hold, but before he got even close to freeing himself, the suicidal idiot dug his fingers into Geralt’s skin.

“I swear by every god in the pantheon, Geralt,” he snarled, “if you make me drop you, I will let that thing eat us both.”

From anyone else, it would have been an idle threat. From Jaskier, it made Geralt clench his jaw and fight to keep his left leg moving.

He spotted Jaskier’s probable destination–a low crevice in the rocky hills surrounding the valley–and lurched toward it. This time Jaskier let him go, or more accurately shoved him in the right direction, lending his strength to Geralt’s. Geralt scrambled into the crack on his hands and one knee, not bothering to stifle his panting and cursing. His spine scraped across rock, and he dropped to his elbows to drag himself forward the last few meters before the tiny cave became too narrow for someone of human size to squeeze into.

He groaned in pain as Jaskier came tumbling in behind him, pressing all his weight on Geralt’s wounded thigh as he jostled away from the cave entrance.

“Shit! Fuck, sorry,” Jaskier panted. Beyond him, Geralt could hear the griffin’s harsh breaths and the squeal of its claws on the rock as it tried to reach them.

With bared teeth, Geralt struggled onto his back so his bad leg was on the side not being cuddled up to by a wriggling bard. He forced an arm under Jaskier’s shoulders, grabbed a fistful of doublet, and yanked him against his chest. The griffin let out a sharp cry of frustration, painfully magnified in the small space; the sound stabbed into Geralt’s brain, blackening his vision. Before it cleared, he felt Jaskier give a sudden jerk.

Fear sliced through him, and he clutched at the bard. He wrestled to keep his arms wrapped around the other man, but his limbs felt heavy and Jaskier slipped from his grasp. 

“No,” he choked, fumbling to get up, to move, _to save him_. “Jaskier!”

Strong hands pressed him back down, and as his mental haze dissipated, he could see blue eyes looking back at him.

“I’m here. I’m right here. I’m just trying to get my doublet off to wrap around that leg.”

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed, slumping back against the rock. He glanced toward the cave entrance. The griffin had moved away, but it would likely be hours before it gave up the hunt entirely and abandoned the valley.

“Pretty much,” Jaskier agreed. He reached across to press the wadded cloth against Geralt’s wounds, and the pain made consciousness retreat again. He could feel strangled words (mostly insults) scraping his throat, but Jaskier just huffed a laugh. 

“So that’s ‘stupid,’ ‘idiot,’ and ‘little shit.’ Anything else you’d like to call me?”

Heavy numbness overtook the pain, and Geralt’s whole body felt distant, like floating in a bath. Like letting himself drift while gentle hands scrubbed him clean. 

“Mine,” he mumbled. “My Jaskier.”

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he felt a thumb pulling open his eyelid. “Geralt? What the fuck, Geralt? Did you just…?” 

He glimpsed Jaskier’s furrowed brow and flushed cheeks before he let Geralt’s eye slide shut again. One of the hands he’d been imagining kept pressure on his injuries, but the other stroked soothing circles over his chest, and he drifted further until it reached up to give his neck a sharp pinch.

“Stay awake, you bastard,” Jaskier ordered.

“Hmm.”

“We are so having a conversation when you’re lucid.”

“Hmm.”


	24. Playtime (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: Geraskier + nose kisses is,,,,,a good concept

The smell reaches Jaskier first. It’s strong enough that he has to put down his lute and pull the handkerchief from his pocket. He covers his nose and rolls his eyes as an ichor-drenched Geralt shambles back into camp.

“Really?” Jaskier asks him as he stands from his stump by the fire. “You have to let it eat you every time?”

Geralt grunts. “It’s the quickest way.”

“Right. And do you factor cleaning time into that assessment?”

His Witcher only grunts again and tosses back a lank lock of hair from his face. Little droplets of goo spray around him.

Sighing, Jaskier sacrifices his own nasal passages to get closer and wipe at Geralt’s face with his handkerchief. “Can you even breathe through all that muck?”

Geralt wisely doesn’t answer, keeping his mouth closed as Jaskier scrubs at his nose, forehead, and cheeks. By the time he reaches bare skin, the handkerchief is soaked, and he lets it drop to the ground with a wet smack. He swipes a final smudge from Geralt’s nose with the back of his hand and then presses a kiss to the tip.

“Well, that’s one part clean anyway. You can do the rest yourself. And you’re welcome for insisting we camp beside a pond.”

“You’re not going to join me?”

Jaskier shivers. “That water’s probably freezing. And unlike some people, I’m capable of going a whole day without getting covered in innards.”

Geralt’s lips twitch just a touch, a bare hint at a smirk. “Day’s not over yet.”

Jaskier is already backing away before he even sees the gleam in golden eyes. He knows that gleam, that spark of the predator come out to play, and while he normally adores it (and the energetic romps it heralds), monster guts and a cold bath were not on his list of plans for the evening.

“Geralt,” he warns, holding up a finger in warning. “Geralt, no.”

Still his lover advances, his smirk widening to a grin that flashes teeth that look all the whiter for his general messiness. Jaskier takes another tentative step backward, glancing over his shoulder at the shadow of the water he’s approaching.

“No!” he insists again. “Bad wolf!”

Geralt lunges, and Jaskier dodges with a yelp. Outstretched fingers just barely miss him, and he knows it’s calculated on Geralt’s part; if the Witcher really wanted to catch him, he’d already be on the ground. Without words, Geralt is letting him set the terms of the game. If he avoids contact long enough, Geralt will break off and go dunk himself in the pond.

Alone. Naked. Pale skin glinting in the moonlight as droplets follow the paths carved by hard muscle.

And surely it’s unchivalrous of Jaskier to make him face that cold water without anyone nearby to warm him.

Jaskier weaves around another swipe and skips back to the fire, shrugging off his doublet. “At least let me get undressed, you heathen.” He points at the stump he vacated with an imperious finger. “Sit there and think about what you’ve done.”

Geralt prowls after him, slow and paced as a hunting cat, and Jaskier shivers at the glowing, hungry eyes that watch him from across the fire. “I’d rather think about what I’m going to do.”

Clucking his tongue, Jaskier peels his shirt over his head. “Incorrigible,” he sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

His lover grins again, baring his teeth and looking every inch like he earned the moniker Jaskier gave him. “I have a few ideas.”

Jaskier folds his shirt carefully, turns his back to that burning gaze, and bends slowly at the waist to set the shirt on his bedroll. “Do tell,” he purrs over his shoulder.

And Geralt does. In admirable detail. The rest of Jaskier’s clothes do not get carefully folded, and by the time they make it to the pond, he doesn’t even notice the temperature.


	25. Mortal Wounds Part 2 (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user lookoutrogue asked for a sequel to the fic that's chapter 23 in this collection (the genie tumor comes back).

Twenty years pass before the tumor comes back. It’s not slow. One moment Jaskier and Geralt are sitting in their rented cottage by the sea, chatting and eating breakfast. The next Jaskier’s face is bright russet and his lips are blue and Geralt tears the seams of his belt pouch reaching the potion Yennefer gave him. They both panic when the liquid dribbles down Jaskier’s chin, but Geralt holds the bottle steady, lets just a trickle flow out, and massages Jaskier’s swollen throat until he manages to swallow the rest. He goes lax almost instantly, and Geralt is sure Yennefer mixed a sedative into the potion. He’s grateful because once Jaskier changes from short, panicked gasps to longer breaths, his face and lips tinge back toward pink. He arranges Jaskier in the bed and calls Yenn on the xenovox. She comes quickly, turns sedated sleep to magical sleep with a gesture, and gets to work healing.

When she’s finished, Geralt sits at Jaskier’s bedside. The sun from the window falls full on Jaskier’s face, and it’s not kind. Not to the gray hair on his head and in his beard, not to the creases at the corners of his eyes, not to the lines around his mouth. The spectacles he wears now sit on the nightstand, and Geralt has become so accustomed to seeing blue eyes twinkle over their edges that Jaskier looks strangely more frail without them.

And in that moment, Geralt can feel an end coming. Not today, not soon, but inevitable and gaining speed. His mutant eyes cannot cry, but as he looks at his aging lover, they burn, and he hides them in his hand as his shoulders shake.

When Jaskier wakes, it’s with a gasp, but Geralt is there to take his hand and reassure him. The bard smiles and leans back on the pillows, eyes still hazy and half-lidded. He opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt presses a finger to his lips.

“Yenn said you should wait a while to talk.”

Jaskier nods. He opens his mouth again but uses his free hand to simulate sound coming out.

Geralt nods. “You’ll be able to talk and sing.” He rubs his thumb against the back of the hand in his. “Your upper range might be affected. And she says you might not have the same level of stamina.”

At that, Jaskier raises an eyebrow. He smirks and gestures at his lap.

Despite everything, Geralt snorts a laugh. “Just your vocal stamina.”

Jaskier wipes his free hand across his brow in an exaggerated motion of relief. Then he tugs on Geralt’s hand until he moves from the bedside chair to the bed. Instead of cuddling up to him, Jaskier sits up more to face him. He points to himself and then nods. He points to Geralt and nods again. Then he gestures between them and nods a third time before holding Geralt’s face between his hands.

_I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re okay._

Because his throat is feeling thick again, Geralt can only nod himself in response. Jaskier tilts his head down and presses a kiss to his forehead.

An end is coming, but it’s not today.


	26. Rainbow Connection (Getting together)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: For a geraskier prompt: Geralt is cursed by a vain mage so that his hair changes color according to his mood. Like a mood ring that he can’t hide, and his hair turns pink with love whenever he’s around Jaskier.

Over the years, Jaskier developed a talent for assessing Geralt’s post-hunt condition with a single glance. It usually fell somewhere on a scale between “eh, he’s fine” and “I may need to go find the internal organs that he no doubt dropped along his bloody trail back here.” But then a night came when he had to reevaluate the whole system.

Because Geralt came back looking mostly unscathed but sporting bright-red hair.

And not as in he had somehow become a redhead. As in red as a rose, red as an apple, red as a well-swatted arse. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier joined in on the silence that filled the tavern at Geralt’s entrance. His fingers froze mid-chord; his voice choked off mid-verse. Golden eyes met his before sweeping around the gaping crowd.

And then, like magic (of course like magic), the color of Geralt’s hair melted through several shades of varying oranges before settling into an ugly mustardy color. It stayed that way as he stomped across the tavern floor and up the stairs to the room they’d rented.

If he’d been injured, Jaskier would have hurried after him without question, but he frankly had no idea how he was supposed to help with this particular situation. And he knew the look he’d seen on Geralt’s face; it usually meant that anyone who came near him was likely to get snapped at if they were lucky and decapitated if they were not. So he elected to resume his singing, earn his coin, and distract the crowd from ruminating on how Witchers were even more odd than they’d guessed. He avoided singing any songs that utilized the imagery of the _White_ Wolf.

When he finished for the night and went up to their room, he was greeted by the sight of Geralt’s glorious backside on full display as he knelt on the floor bent over a bucket. He’d removed all his armor and clothing except for his trousers, and when he sat back, he flipped his soaked hair–red again–spattering Jaskier in the process. At his annoyed “Hey!” Geralt whipped around, and as soon as his eyes met Jaskier’s, his hair went muddy yellow.

Interesting. Jaskier had a budding idea of what was happening, but to test it, he very deliberately did not look at Geralt as he put his lute away and removed his own doublet, shirt, and shoes. He gave himself a quick wash at the basin in the corner, glanced at Geralt’s reflection in the small mirror on the wall, and frowned. Geralt’s hair was still yellow, so it didn’t change based on whether someone was looking at him–or at least _not only_ because of that.

He settled on the edge of the bed and clucked his tongue at the water that Geralt had managed to get all over the floor. If the ceiling below began to leak, they’d hear about it from the innkeeper, so he nudged Geralt in the side with his toe.

“Judging by the puddles, you’ve been at this for awhile,” he said. “If it was going to work, it would have by now.”

Geralt jerked his head out of the bucket and glared at him–and his hair was red again. Very interesting.

Jaskier held up his hands in surrender. “Just pointing out the obvious. This–I assume it’s a curse or spell of some kind?–probably isn’t going to be remedied that easily.”

Geralt continued to glare at him, but the red of his hair began to darken, fading through purple to a deep blue. A few strands went black, barely noticeable in the candlelight, but for some reason, they made Jaskier’s stomach turn. He slipped from the bed to kneel at Geralt’s side and laid what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it will fade soon,” Jaskier said. “You’ll probably wake up tomorrow and be right back to your monochromatic self.”

He received only a grunt for his sympathy, but as they looked at each other, Geralt’s hair shaded back to purple. As it veered toward red, Jaskier prepared to back away, but the color grew paler and warmer. It settled into a soft pink, and coupled with Geralt’s golden eyes, it gave the impression of a hazy, rosy dawn.

Jaskier sucked in a breath at the sheer _gorgeousness_ of it and smiled in delight. For a moment, Geralt’s eyes flicked to Jaskier’s mouth, and the pink deepened to a dusky rose, and _gods_ , he desperately wanted that color to spill over onto Geralt’s pale skin because he would bet his last oren that the Witcher would flush just that shade when pleasured just right. Jaskier could feel his own face heat, and when Geralt met his gaze again, he barely resisted the urge to lean in and find out.

But Geralt jerked away, pushing to his feet, and when he raked his fingers through his hair, it was that horrid, dirty yellow again. He climbed into the bed, turned to face the wall, and curled up with his back to Jaskier in an obviously deliberate way. Jaskier suppressed an annoyed (disappointed) sigh and blew out the candles before stretching out on his half of the mattress. Hopefully he wasn’t just full of shit when he said it would all be over by morning.

He was, unfortunately, just as full of shit as everyone had always accused him of being.

When the sound of the door slamming woke him in the morning, he rushed to get dressed and gather his things before Geralt got too far ahead of him. He was not surprised by the Witcher’s red hair when he caught up to Roach just outside of town. Geralt’s shoulders tensed up to his ears, but when Jaskier didn’t say anything (because he did in fact have _some_ sense of self-preservation, no matter what _some_ people might say), they gradually loosened. Later in the day, as Jaskier idly strummed his lute and tried out various verses about the countryside they were roaming through, the red shaded back toward pink, and he beamed.

As annoying as Geralt found the change, it did make life between them a bit more harmonious. Just as he’d gotten good at reading Geralt’s physical condition and monosyllabic hums, Jaskier quickly mastered the rainbow of Geralt’s hair. Red was a clear warning that the Witcher’s temper was high. Jaskier rarely saw the ugly yellow when they were alone, but it dogged Geralt in every village and town until Jaskier drew people’s attention away. With practice, Geralt began to exert some control, and when he was truly determined, he could will his hair to a rather fetching chestnut color that made Jaskier wonder what he might have looked like if he’d never become a Witcher.

The pink was still his favorite, though.

Some of the colors he could do without. He still didn’t like the blues, and he _hated_ them if they were shot through with black (especially if it was the result of some _godsdamned piece of shit_ daring to utter the word “butcher” in Geralt’s hearing). Jaskier had once gotten a knock on the head when he’d gotten too close to a fight, and Geralt’s hair had turned a shocking orange that clashed horribly with his eyes and lasted until Jaskier assured him that he was fine. The red that followed was so bright it hurt to look at.

And then there was the purple. Or, more accurately, the fucking violet.

Ever since the djinn, running into Yennefer of Vengerberg seemed to be an inevitability. Jaskier had been so enchanted with the idea of a dragon hunt (and Borch’s two companions–in love he might be, but he still had _eyes_ ) that he missed the moment she walked into the tavern. But he hadn’t missed the moment when Geralt’s hair had shifted from its stubborn brown to a particular shade of violet. Across the tavern, Yennefer’s eyes widened with surprise, and then she laughed. She laughed, and Jaskier was ready to stab her with his lute the moment Geralt’s hair went yellow. Instead Geralt laughed a little too, and on anyone else, Jaskier would have called Yennerfer’s resulting smile sweet.

The violet hair stayed. It stayed at the campfire. It stayed when they found Sir Eyck’s corpse. (It gleamed fucking iridescent in the morning sunlight.) It stayed when Borch, Tea, and Vea fell to their deaths. It stayed when Jaskier tried to convince Geralt to leave. And it stayed when Geralt went to Yennefer’s tent that night.

In the morning, Jaskier woke up alone (what the fuck, Geralt?). At the mountaintop, he found magically stuck dwarves, dead Reavers, and living warrior women (seriously, _what the fuck, Geralt?_ ). And he saw Geralt with Yennefer. He saw her turn away, and he saw Geralt’s hair darken, deeper and deeper until it was as close to black as it could be, with only the faintest trace of indigo holding on. When Borch walked away too, every part of Jaskier wanted to go to Geralt, to try and comfort him, to try and bring some color, any color, back to him–even fucking violet.

But the black was too deep for light words, so instead he waited. He sat on his rock and he waited until Geralt turned back to him. Geralt didn’t say anything, barely looked at him, but he didn’t object when Jaskier followed him down the mountain. They moved on after that in much their usual way, Geralt taking contracts and Jaskier singing in taverns. But though they moved slowly, every day their ultimate destination became more clear.

They were headed for Cintra. And every step that took them closer lightened Geralt’s hair a little more. Jaskier didn’t know if Yennefer had suggested it, but whatever spell or curse was upon Geralt, destiny would clearly free him. By the time they reached the gates of Cintra, Geralt’s hair was fully gray.

Of course, then they were shoved off into a dungeon by Calanthe (over Jaskier’s very vociferous objections); everything that happened after was like something out of a nightmare. They made it out alive, but the whole world seemed on fire, and the princess slipped beyond their grasp. Geralt’s hair went black as pitch, and they both feared the worst, but as Geralt spun in a useless circle in a field, scanning the horizon desperately, a flash of silver caught the moonlight. Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm, ignored the snarl the move earned, and bodily turned Geralt until his hair flickered silver again.

“That way,” he said, pointing, and they were off.

They caught up to Ciri two days later. She was dirty and hungry and clearly terrified, but the moment she embraced Geralt, the moment his arms went around her, Geralt’s hair glowed bright. It kept glowing, brighter and brighter, lighting the whole forest, until Jaskier had to look away. Then the light faded, and when he looked back with tearing eyes, Geralt’s hair was back to its familiar silvery white.

They passed by a village later that day, but they didn’t stop. Geralt and Ciri skirted it entirely while Jaskier went through the shops and markets buying a pack and filling it with everything Ciri would need and didn’t have–warm clothes, blankets, her own bedroll. He saw so many trinkets and treasures that he wished he could gift her, but he contented himself with something small and practical–a hairbrush inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She cried when he gave it to her, and he held her tight as Geralt built them a fire.

She was asleep almost as soon as she lay down, exhaustion winning out over all her fear and grief. Jaskier and Geralt sat on a log on the other side of the fire, watching her, carrying their own weights of all that they had seen and all that was to come. When the fire had burned down to embers, Jaskier felt Geralt’s gaze on him. He turned to meet it and had to swallow when he noticed how closely they’d been sitting. He shifted, intending to move back, but Geralt’s hand against his jaw paralyzed him like a bolt of lightning from on high.

“Will you stay?” he asked quietly. “Will you stay with us?”

Jaskier wasn’t sure he could speak; he felt he could barely breathe. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes, of course.”

Geralt glanced down at his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

Words failed Jaskier entirely then, so he nodded. Geralt’s kiss was the lightest brush of lips against his, but gods, he ached with the tenderness in the gesture. It was sweet and soft and perfect. It was everything good in his Witcher that the blind, blasted fools of the world somehow couldn’t see. It was everything he had ever wanted captured in a single moment.

When they pulled apart, his eyes widened. With a trembling hand, he reached up and took a lock of Geralt’s hair between his fingers. At first he thought it was a trick of the firelight, but at his touch, the faint blush in Geralt’s hair darkened just a touch. It was much more subtle than before, but it was there, his own personal sunrise. He worried Geralt might be bothered, but when he looked from his hair to his eyes, his Witcher was smiling, open and honest as he so rarely let himself be.

And Jaskier laughed, buried his hands in the strands painted his new favorite color, and kissed his love again.


	27. Those Are the Rules, Geralt (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt for Tumblr user buttercup-jaskier: some fluffy greaksier in kaer morhen would be Devine

With his enhanced eyes, Geralt had an easy enough time getting ready for the day without opening the wooden shutters covering the window. He prowled through the dark, gathering his clothes and pulling them on, and then went to the fireplace to poke the flames back to life. He didn’t notice the cold much, but the percentage of Jaskier visible at any given time was a good indicator of temperature. Currently all he could see was a tuft of brown hair and a lump under the furs piled on the bed. When a log popped in the fire, a pair of bleary blue eyes peeked out as well.

“Geralt? Why are you up in the middle of the night?”

“It’s an hour past dawn.”

“Close enough,” Jaskier yawned. “I need to instruct you in the fine art of sleeping in.”

Geralt crossed to the bed and crouched down beside Jaskier’s pillow. “Would you rather Vesemir come up here and drag me down to the training grounds by the ear?”

Jaskier furrowed his brow in thought and then gave a serious nod. “Yes. That would be hilarious.”

“You wouldn’t find it so funny when he dragged you out alongside me.”

“He wouldn’t dare. You would defend my honor.”

“Against the Old Wolf? Not a chance.”

Jaskier’s half-lidded eyes somewhat ruined his attempt to glare. “Whatever happened to unconditional love, I ask you?”

“It doesn’t exist.”

With a put-upon sigh, Jaskier let his eyes slip closed again. “I’m furious with myself for falling in love with such an unromantic soul.”

When Geralt carded his fingers through brown hair, the bard sighed again, happily this time. “If I bring you breakfast in a couple of hours, will you forgive yourself?”

“Maybe. If it’s a good breakfast. I’ve been known to hold a grudge.”

“You don’t say,” Geralt drawled.

He leaned down for a kiss and grunted in surprise when he was met with a hand sprawled across his face instead.

“No,” Jaskier mumbled. “If you leave the bed, you don’t get kisses. Those are the rules.”

Pushing to his feet, Geralt smacked Jaskier’s backside through the furs. “I think you’re the unromantic soul.”

“Vicious slander. I romance the shit out of you and you know it.”

Geralt couldn’t really argue with that, especially once Jaskier let out a soft snore. He closed the door quietly behind him when he left and smiled to himself as he trotted down to the practice yard.


	28. What Rhymes with Shithole? (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user thatoneminecraftflower: geralt and jaskier cuddling after a long journey and watching the sunseeeet🥺

“Well, that town was terrible,” Jaskier said as he sat back from the campfire. The flames had finally caught despite the afternoon rain that had left most of the wood he’d found damp. Hopefully the bedrolls would dry out some, or they’d be doomed to the smell of wet wool all night.

“Let’s never go there again,” he continued. “In fact, I think I’ll write a song to remind us. What rhymes with ‘blighted shithole’?”

Geralt had no answer from where he was drying and brushing Roach, which in itself was no surprise, but his silence had that distinct broody quality that Jaskier disliked.

“ _The mayor was an arsehole_ ,” Jaskier sang. “ _The people were all boors / so do yourself a favor / and keep to out-of-doors_.”

Gazing at his blank-faced lover from across the fire, he sighed. “What do you think, Roach?”

When the mare whinnied, he nodded. “Yes. Absolutely a verse about the innkeeper. _The innkeep’s teeth were brown as shit / His breath, it smelled of dung / He hadn’t even half a wit / May a devil take his tongue_. Yeah, that’s good. Gets those ‘ung’ words in there. They always sound so disgusting, don’t they? Ung. Ung. Unnnnnng.”

With a grunt of exasperation, Geralt shoved Roach’s brush back into his pack. “Are you done yet?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started, love,” Jaskier promised with a wink.

Geralt grunted again but joined him on the damp bedroll. He pulled off his muddy boots and peeled off his socks and set them in a dryish patch of grass where the setting sun’s light could reach them. His feet were wrinkled and bone-white, except for the spots of purplish-red blisters. Jaskier pulled them into his lap to examine them properly and cursed when he felt how cold Geralt’s skin was.

“How far did you have to hike into that swamp?” he asked, rubbing his hands over the frigid toes.

Geralt shrugged as he lay back, hands behind his head, but Jaskier didn’t miss his wince as he wiggled to get comfortable. He reached up and tugged Geralt’s shirt from his waistband despite his lover’s annoyed glare. The large bruise centered on Geralt’s hip made Jaskier’s hands clench into fists.

“Gods, I wish we had access to a hot bath right now,” he muttered.

Geralt closed his eyes. “They said you could stay.”

“Without you! You didn’t honestly think I would agree to that?”

Geralt shrugged again. “I’m only saying that you could have had a hot bath if you’d wanted.”

“I want a hot bath for _you_ , you great lout.”

“Don’t need one.”

“But you should have one,” Jaskier insisted. “Gods, we should have stabbed the bastards.”

“All of them?”

The slight upward twitch of Geralt’s lips made Jaskier grin in response. He gently shifted Geralt’s feet off his lap and lay down to curl against his lover’s uninjured side.

“We could have tried.”

“We’d be dead,” Geralt murmured as he wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. “I’d rather lie in the wet grass.”

“You may have a point. And out here we get to enjoy the lovely sunset.” He pressed a line of kisses from Geralt’s ear, down his jaw, to the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I’ll just have to think of another way to warm you up.”


	29. Bedtime Story (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: what about Jaskier asking Geralt about the stars, mostly just to hear the Witcher talk because he loves Geralt’s voice and it relaxes him and helps him feel safe? And Geralt looks over at one point and sees Jaskier fast asleep?

Through the flames of the campfire, Geralt watched the bard’s face. It was pale, pinched with pain, and dotted with sweat. Jaskier lay on his side, and the shoulder not curled in the bedroll rose and fell in stuttering rhythm with his rough breaths. His fingers clenched and unclenched in the grass, and he’d bitten his lip bloody as he struggled through the throbbing pain.

Geralt tried to remember his first serious injury, the first time pain couldn’t be breathed through or walked off, the kind of pain that you just had to _endure_. But it had been too long ago and he was sure he’d suffered significantly worse in the decades since. This was the first time the bard had taken more than a bruise or a scratch in his presence; he assumed it was the first time for the bard at all.

The wound wasn’t life-threatening. A harpy’s claws had sliced through his hip, deep and bloody, but they hadn’t cut any organs or major blood vessels. Geralt had treated and dressed the slashes, but the only tincture he had suitable for human pain was willow bark, and that was made for headache or toothache, not this. He’d dosed the bard anyway and forced water on him, though he’d relented when Jaskier pushed the dried meat he offered aside with a nauseated grimace.

Beyond that, there was nothing to be done. Geralt knew it. Jaskier likely did as well. The bard asked for nothing; in fact, he’d been admirably stoic considering the way he trembled and the acrid scent of fear in the air. If Geralt had ever thought about Jaskier getting injured before, he might have expected moans and dramatic lamentations. Instead they both stared at the flickering fire and might as well have been on opposite sides of the Continent.

Geralt felt a shifting uneasiness in his chest. He tried to chase it down, but it squirmed beyond the outlines of any name he tried to pin to it. Guilt? He’d told the bard to wait at the inn; it was hardly his fault if a grown man couldn’t follow basic instruction. Worry? The bard would recover; he probably wouldn’t even scar. Sympathy? Maybe. He certainly knew the unpleasantness of aching wounds on a hard forest floor.

Loneliness? Did some part of him expect the nattering and the music that had become the background of his evenings? Had he grown so accustomed to it all that he _missed_ it when it was gone?

That thought… fit the feeling better than he wanted to admit.

Which was absurd. The bard was right there, within sight, within reach if Geralt shifted a few feet to the left. The fire on that side was dying down anyway. He found the long stick he’d used to stoke the flames and circled around to poke the fading embers awake. Roach’s saddle sat in the grass beside the bard’s head; it was a good spot to lean back and relax. When he’d settled himself, Jaskier glanced at him with a wan smile. 

“We should reach a village tomorrow,” Geralt told him. “Find something stronger for the pain and a bed.”

Jaskier nodded. “Thanks.” Geralt could barely hear him over the pop and crackle of the burning logs.

Geralt sighed. “Do you still want to know about the Signs?”

The crease that formed in Jaskier’s brow was confusion more than pain. “What?”

“You asked. Last week.” Geralt leaned over and flicked back a lock of brown hair that threatened to fall into Jaskier’s eyes. “About the magic I use. Do you still want to know?”

“I…” The bard gave another nod, far more energetic. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Lacing his hands behind his head, Geralt looked up at the stars. The constellations that came with cooler weather were beginning their trek across the skies. The sight made it easier to call Kaer Morhen and his long-ago lessons to mind.

“There are five. We learn them in a certain order to build on the…” He frowned as he tried to find the right words for something he’d never had to explain. “Technique, I suppose.”

When he looked at Jaskier, the bard smiled again. The creases around his eyes had eased. “Like scales.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “You’ve seen me use Igni and Aard. There’s also Yrden, Axii, and Quen.”

He described each Sign in turn, how it was learned, the movement it required, the best circumstances under which to use it. He didn’t have Jaskier’s gift for flowery speech, and he knew his words were as dusty and dry as the books in Kaer Morhen’s library, but they were what he had and he had lived his life making do with what he had. If he spent his days regretting all the things he wasn’t, he’d have no time for anything else.

Halfway through his explanation of Quen, he had to pause to clear his throat and take a drink from the waterskin he’d left beside Jaskier’s bedroll; he couldn’t remember that last time he’d talked so long at a stretch. As he wiped a stray drop from his chin, he was surprised to see that Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. Geralt scented the air, and though the other man still smelled of sweat and clotted blood, that tinge of fear had dissipated. Across the clearing, Roach dozed in a patch of sweet grass. Geralt’s medallion lay peaceful against his chest.

With a quiet hum, he lowered the waterskin and stretched out his shoulders; then he lay back again and folded his hands over his stomach. He let his own eyes drift closed and matched his breaths to the bard’s. The cool evening air was as still as a pond, and he slipped, smooth and easy, into gentle meditation.


	30. His Favorite Flower (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Jaskier finding out what Geralts favorite flower is and making/getting cute related things for him ? ?

“Look at these!” Jaskier exclaimed when he wandered back to camp. He laid an armful of pale purple hellebore flowers on the stones around the campfire. “Aren’t they lovely?”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t look up from sharpening his sword, but he nodded toward the saddlebags on the ground beside Roach. “Mortar and pestle are in there.”

“Or,” Jaskier replied with a grimace as he knelt on his bedroll, “we could actually enjoy them for a bit before mashing them to powder.”

“It’s more of a paste when they’re fresh.”

Plucking one blossom from the bunch, Jaskier inhaled its fragrance before tucking it behind his ear. “You’re telling me you get no pleasure out of these aside from their utility?”

Geralt stilled his hand on his whetstone to raise an eyebrow. “I get pleasure from not dying of poison.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” 

With another bloom in hand, Jaskier lay back, squinting up at the late-afternoon sun while twirling the flower above him. “But not all flowers are good for potions. What’s your favorite among the ones you don’t smash to a pulp?” When Geralt didn’t answer, he rolled to his side and propped himself on an elbow. “Come on, Geralt. You must have a favorite flower.”

“No,” Geralt answered, going back to sharpening. “I mustn’t.”

“Well, that’s unacceptable. We’ll just have to find you one.”

Geralt glared, but Jaskier only smirked in response.

Unfortunately he seemed to make finding Geralt’s favorite flower his personal mission. From that moment on, for the entire season, everywhere they went, Geralt heard about flowers.

“This town is known for its beautiful peonies.”

“Oh, an apple blossom festival!”

“What about roses? Roses are classic, Geralt. Too cliché? What about lilies?”

The last statement had been followed by Jaskier thrusting a bouquet from the market into Geralt’s face, which had in turn been followed by Geralt sneezing for a solid ten minutes. Jaskier was more considerate of his sensitive Witcher nose after that, but he still pointed out every damn petal they passed.

Geralt welcomed the cooler autumn weather with more enthusiasm than usual that year. Jaskier still oohed and ahhed over every stall in every village market, but with the harvests coming in, he had to content himself with admiring fruits and vegetables. Any flowers that remained along the roadside or in window boxes drooped and withered, falling to the soil to enrich next spring’s blossoms. And when Jaskier waxed poetic about the color of a farmer’s apples, they at least got to eat them after.

Of course, he should have known better than to doubt Jaskier’s tenacity. In one of the last towns they passed through before parting for the winter, Jaskier managed to find a tiny booth tucked at the very end of the road. A young girl wringing her hands in her patched skirt stood behind an old crate; across it were laid a collection of plain linen handkerchiefs embroidered with simple flower designs. Jaskier enthused over their beauty as if viewing the crown jewels of Redania, and Geralt couldn’t help the upward twitch of his lips as the girl blushed pink and smiled with shy pride.

“You know, I just can’t decide between the bluebells and the poppies, so I’ll have to take both.” Jaskier winked as he handed the girl the coins and gathered his wares. “Well, Geralt,” he said, turning to the Witcher, “you’ve had a whole season to make up your mind. Time to pick your favorite.”

“Hmm.” Geralt pulled out his coin purse; the girl looked like she could use a good meal. His eyes caught on one of the simpler designs, a few stems with smallish flowers, bright yellow, their petals stitched in dainty circles. He picked it up and gave the girl a coin, and she blushed harder as she murmured a quiet “Thank you, sir Witcher,” while looking at her boots.

Jaskier, surprisingly, didn’t comment. The whole walk back to the inn, Geralt could feel the bard casting sidelong glances at him, and he finally turned to confront him before they went inside.

“What?” he growled.

Jaskier was fighting a smile. “Buttercups are your favorite?”

“You told me to choose, so I chose,” Geralt retorted with a scowl.

“And what an interesting choice it was. You do know we call that flower ‘jaskier’ where I come from?” He leaned close to Geralt’s shoulder and gazed up at him with teasingly wide blue eyes. “Do I bring you pleasure, Geralt?”

The word _pleasure_ rolled out of his lips on a husky low pitch. It was as much of a tease as his batted eyelashes, but Geralt had to fight the sudden urge to shiver.

He turned it into a shrug instead. “As much as any of the other frivolous, useless things of the world.”

Jaskier gaped at him, feigning affront as Geralt had known he would, even as his eyes still laughed. “I’ll show you useless. I’ll earn twice as much as you in this town.” He backed toward the inn door, spreading his arms wide with a smirk.

Until he tripped on a loose stone and landed with a yelp and his arse on the dirt path.

Rolling his eyes, Geralt stepped forward to offer him a hand up. “When exactly do you plan on not being useless?”

“You just wait until spring,” Jaskier grumbled as he swiped the dust off his trousers. “You’re going to wake up every morning with buttercups in your hair.”


	31. It's Getting Hot in Here (Established)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from wildlyannoyingdoofus on Tumblr: So, all the fics I read say Witchers are warmer/have a higher body temperature than humans. As a nerd, I object, since Witchers age slower, eat less and have slower heartbeats it would make SO much more sense if their body temperature was lower. In the spirit of fluff Jaskier is hotttt after walking all day and the sun is beating down and Geralt is cool, he’s barely even bothered by the heat, still wearing all his armor, and Jaskier is clingy and sweaty and just tackles Geralt under a shady tree.

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier helps him unsaddle Roach once they find a spot to camp. They both walked all afternoon to spare her the weight on top of the heat, and from Jaskier’s complaints, he’d expected the bard to collapse in the first patch of shade he found. The unusual restraint lasts all the way until Geralt leads Roach to drink from the little stream nearby, and then Jaskier is grabbing at Geralt and removing his armor with aggressive speed.

Geralt just smirks and raises an eyebrow as Jaskier proceeds to strip him. “Something you need?”

“Yes,” Jaskier growls. “You.”

“Didn’t think you’d have the energy.”

“I don’t, which is painfully unfair. You may not feel the heat, but I’m boiling.”

One vambrace falls to the ground, followed swiftly by the other, and then Jaskier is practically ripping Geralt’s studded jerkin open. Geralt helps with that part, and as he sets it on the ground, hot hands tug his shirt from his waistband and bury themselves in his chest hair.

“Oh, gods, your skin,” Jaskier moans, throwing his head back in true theatric style. “It’s like jumping into a cold lake.”

Geralt laughs as he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. “There’s a stream right there,” he points out as he reaches out to divest Jaskier of his sweat-soaked chemise.

“That is barely a trickle and is likely lukewarm at best, whereas _you_ , my dear Witcher…”

He doesn’t even finish the thought. Instead he pushes Geralt down to the grass beneath a leafy tree and sprawls bodily atop him. He moans again as he buries his flushed face against Geralt’s throat.

“If you don’t wrap your ridiculously muscular arms around me this instant, I will bite you,” he threatens.

To prove his point, he starts to nip and mouth at Geralt’s jaw, and though Geralt hardly wants him to stop, he complies with his lover’s wishes. A small shiver races down Jaskier’s spine, and he shifts to suck Geralt’s earlobe into his mouth. Geralt closes his eyes and follows the line of Jaskier’s arm with his hand until he finds the bard’s fingers. He guides one into his own mouth, so he can finally taste the sweat that has made Jaskier’s scent thick with salt all afternoon.

Jaskier groans, softer this time, heartfelt and deep. He straddles one of Geralt’s thighs and grinds down. When Geralt releases his finger from between his lips, Jaskier’s hand immediately flutters down his belly to tug at the laces of his trousers.

Geralt grunts. “Thought you didn’t have the energy.”

“Praise the gods, I am revived.” Jaskier lifts his head to grin down at Geralt. “Time to repay me for warming you up all winter.”


	32. Contentment (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Imagine Jaskier helping Geralt overcome a common fear of like dogs or spiders or some thing... Maybe ?

Contentment, Geralt decided, might well be a barn on a warm summer evening.

He had killed the wraith haunting a widow’s small farm, and while she had neither spare coin nor spare bed to offer, she had insisted on providing a warm, filling meal and the hay loft of her barn. Jaskier had already scrambled up and declared it clean and comfortable and “just perfect for that kind of provincial aesthetic that makes a sweet ballad really resonate, don’t you think, Geralt?”

Geralt had no opinion on the matter, and he had rolled his eyes and resumed brushing Roach, but the fondness with which he smiled wasn’t reserved for the mare alone. She seemed pleased with her stall, and the widow’s old mule raised no fuss about sharing the space. As he finished his final sweep along Roach’s coat for any burrs he’d missed, Jaskier began murmuring to himself. When the murmurs rose to a delighted exclamation and a louder half-conversation, Geralt suspected he was actually talking to someone or something. Leave it to the bard to make a friend in a barn in the middle of nowhere.

His suspicions were confirmed when he climbed the ladder to the loft. He climbed just high enough to see over the ledge, and Jaskier looked up from his lapful of kittens with a wide grin.

“Look, Geralt! I’m an uncle!”

Geralt’s lips twitched upward in response. “That would make for an interesting family tree.”

“True,” Jaskier agreed. “But their mother quite forcibly adopted me and then coerced me into watching her brood while she hunts up her supper. As I have accepted this weighty responsibility, I declare myself an official member of this feline family.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt spent a long minute watching the scene. Three kittens had fallen asleep sprawled across Jaskier’s legs and torso, which required the bard to engage in some interesting contortions in order to keep the other three from wandering off. Each time he caught one up by the scruff, he laughed and snuggled it close to his face before releasing it to bound away again.

Geralt smiled and shook his head. “I’ll sleep below,” he said. He didn’t mind, though he’d miss Jaskier’s closeness in the night.

Jaskier looked at him and frowned as he absently saved a kitten from a headlong tumble to the ground. “What? Why?” He tilted his head. “You always avoid cats. Why is that?” A small grin crossed his lips as he held one of the kittens up and pointed its paw in Geralt’s direction. “You’re not scared, are you? The mighty Witcher running from sweet kitties?” 

“Other way around. They dislike me, so I avoid them.” Geralt shrugged. “Why cause them unnecessary distress?”

“Distress? Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s simple instinct.”

“Bollocks,” Jaskier replied. “If it were instinct, these little darlings would be scared of you, and I’ll bet you an oren they’re not.” He yelped as one of the kittens nearly fell again and then shot Geralt a sheepish pout. “And I could use the help.”

That much was true; Geralt didn’t suppose kittens that young could brush off such a fall as easily as they would as grown cats. Reluctantly he climbed the rest of the way up the ladder, keeping as far from the kittens as the loft’s dimensions would allow. He grabbed up their packs and erected a makeshift barrier along the ledge. Two of the adventurous kittens pawed at the packs and mewed soft complaints when they were stymied by the new obstacle. The third, a tawny-colored male, stalked around the packs and would have gone right over the side except for Geralt quickly stretching out his leg to block the way.

“Careful, little one,” he murmured.

The kitten looked at him and meowed his protest. To Geralt’s shock, he stalked toward Geralt’s gloved hand, lowered his body, and, with a little wriggle, pounced to attack the leather with tiny teeth. When Geralt looked over to Jaskier with wide eyes, the bard grinned like a holiday had come early.

“See? I told you.”

While keeping the hand holding the kitten’s focus completely still, Geralt slowly reached out with his other hand and plucked up a stray piece of straw. When he waved it near the kitten, he sprang at it in an instant. He showed no hesitation, no fear, too caught up in the game to care that a Witcher held the other end of his prey. As the playful hunt went on, Geralt felt the tension in his neck and shoulders ease, and he chuckled softly at the little paws batting at the straw.

“Take off your gloves,” Jaskier urged. “Give him a pet.”

An automatic protest sprang to Geralt’s lips, but he couldn’t deny how tempting the soft fur looked or how bold the young kitten seemed. Moving as slowly as before, he laid the straw down and tugged off one of his gloves. The kitten peered at his fingers with a curious tilt of his head, but when Geralt wiggled them, he pounced as fearlessly as he had at the straw.

The teeth and claws were nothing, like pricks from tiny thorns, but the fur that brushed Geralt’s skin was like a cloud. He freed his index finger just enough to stroke a small ear, and the kitten pushed into the touch, meowing and nibbling and rolling to show Geralt his belly. Barely daring to breathe, Geralt brushed his knuckles down the kitten’s body and almost snatched them back in shock when he felt the first rumbling vibrations from deep in the little chest.

Jaskier laughed in delight, and Geralt knew the surprised expression on his own face was probably most of the reason, but he couldn’t help letting out a soft huff of laughter as well. His ears were sensitive enough to pick up a cat’s purr even when they were far enough from him to be calm, but he hadn’t realized you could _feel_ it.

His enjoyment of the novel sensation came to a quick end when a streak of gray shot toward the kitten and all but threw it out of Geralt’s reach. The mother cat was already crouched on Jaskier’s leg and hissing madly by the time Geralt registered the sting of bleeding claw marks on his hand.

“No, no!” Jaskier cried in dismay. He swept the kittens up and gathered them in the circle of his legs, then hauled the mother into his arms and held her tight against his chest. He shushed and soothed and cuddled her, bending over so she could sniff and lick at each of her kittens. Throughout it all, her pale-green eyes stayed locked on Geralt.

“No,” Jaskier crooned more quietly. “Silly girl. Why would you attack Geralt? He’s the sweetest man you’ll ever meet. He wouldn’t dream of hurting your darling babies.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, “leave her be.”

The fierce look Jaskier shot him cut off further protests. “No,” Jaskier insisted. “Do you think you saved only the woman that lived here? If these kittens had wandered off into the wraith’s path, do you think they wouldn’t have been torn to pieces? You _saved_ them, Geralt. All of them. And maybe the mother doesn’t quite understand that yet, but I won’t sit here and let her see danger where there is none.”

“She’s a cat, Jaskier.”

“Yes, and cats can learn. Better than some humans, I’d bet.”

Geralt shook his head, but he didn’t leave the loft. He stayed and watched as Jaskier stroked and petted the mother cat until her eyes went half-lidded and lazy. As the evening light started to fade from gold to blue, she turned away from Geralt and circled Jaskier’s lap before settling among the kittens. Jaskier beckoned Geralt closer, which he wasn’t about to do, but he did crane his neck a bit, and they watched in silence as the kittens nursed from their mother.

The tawny male finished first, too curious to stay still for long. He climbed up and over Jaskier’s knee and headed straight for Geralt. With his eyes on the mother, Geralt kept his hands far from the kitten, but though she retrained her gaze on him, she didn’t disrupt the other kittens’ feeding to fetch her wayward son.

With a little spring, the kitten hopped onto Geralt’s thigh. He reared up on his back legs, placed his front paws on Geralt’s stomach, and mewed a demand for attention. He had soft blue eyes, just like another lovely creature that often commandeered Geralt’s affection. He looked over at Jaskier, who met his gaze with a soft smile, his real smile, the one he wore only for Geralt when he was feeling particularly endeared. The bard began to hum quietly, a wordless lullaby, and even the mother cat’s eyes slid closed.

Geralt cupped his hands around the kitten in his lap and gently stroked the soft fur with his thumbs. The kitten let out a yawn, small at first and then wide and wider until it displayed his razor teeth and long pink tongue. Then he curled himself into the shelter of Geralt’s hands and belly and fell into a prompt doze. When he heard Jaskier chuckling, Geralt glanced up from the mesmerizing sight of the sleeping kitten.

“Too bad we can’t keep him,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt stroked a finger lightly over the kitten’s head. “He’s better off here.”

“You may be right,” Jaskier sighed. And then he winked at Geralt. “You owe me an oren.”


	33. On the Road Again (Pre-slash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user teddylacroix: For your fluff prompts! May I humbly suggest Geralt asking Jaskier questions about himself? Where the name Jaskier comes from, his time in Oxenfurt, anything that shows he's been listening and is interested! Thank you for considering ❤️

As the clack of Roach’s hooves on cobblestones gave way to the soft clop of a dirt road, Jaskier suddenly left her side and jumped out in front of her with his hands up. Geralt reined her in with a scowl.

“Forget something?”

Jaskier grinned. “No, but you did.” When Geralt only scowled harder, Jaskier laughed. “You’re forgetting to savor this moment!” he exclaimed, his hands clenched in fists before him as if he could wring joy from the very air.

Geralt grunted and steered Roach around him and back onto the road.

“Oh, come on, Geralt,” Jaskier said as he jogged a few steps to catch up. “It’s our first day back on the road! The long winter is finally over! You and me, together again, setting out to conquer the world. Who knows what adventures await us?”

Geralt said nothing, but as he expected, Jaskier had no problem filling the silence.

“‘How was your winter, Jaskier?’ It was delightful, Geralt. Thank you for asking. ‘Did you find time to write some new compositions?’ I did in fact. ‘I can’t wait to hear them!’ Oh, Geralt, you do make me blush.”

Despite himself, Geralt had to fight the urge to smile. The winter had dragged on long enough that the quiet of the mountains had lost its appeal, and perhaps he’d let his path stray a little closer to Oxenfurt than he might usually in spring.

“Did your student come back?”

Jaskier’s mouth was already open to continue his one-sided conversation, and he gaped a bit like a fish, closing it and opening it again, before he scrunched his brow. “What now?”

“The student you were concerned about,” Geralt replied, gazing at the road ahead. “Did he return for winter term?”

“Oh! Yes!” From the corner of his eye, Geralt could see Jaskier smiling up at him. “Yes, and he’s even settled in a bit better. A couple of the more outgoing students seem to have taken him under their wing. He’s so painfully shy I’m not sure how we’ll make a bard of him, but when he plays...” Jaskier let out a rapturous sigh. “Gods, it’s so beautiful I don’t even want to kill him in a fit of jealous rage.”

“High praise.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaskier was still smiling when he poked Geralt in the thigh. “And you are terribly sweet to ask after him, especially since you just revealed the well-guarded secret that you do listen when I talk.”

“I listen to the bits that aren’t nonsense. The rough average is one word in ten.”

Jaskier laughed. “You don’t fool me, wolf. Under that armor, you’ve got a soft spot for anyone who feels outcast and alone.”

As he looked down at the man who had stood beside him through more thin than thick, a slight smile curled Geralt’s lips. “As do you, bard.”

A faint blush tinged Jaskier’s cheeks, and this time he was the one to turn his eyes to the horizon. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and situated the strap of his pack more securely on his shoulder. “Lead on to adventure, friend! I’ve got feet that itch to trod new roads and eyes that long to see new sights.”

“And lips that never cease to spew new frivolities.”

“You’re damn right,” Jaskier agreed with a firm nod. “Praise be to frivolity. May it lift our spirits as we wade through the horseshit of life.”

“You’d be better off watching where you step,” Geralt noted.

“You watch where you step, you big-” The insult was cut off by the sound of a soft squelch from beneath Jaskier’s feet. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, these boots are brand new!”

“Savor that moment.”

“I’m going to kick you with these the next time we stop. You just wait, you arse.”


	34. Routine (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user swords-n-spindles: Fluff! :D How about sharing food after a long, terrible day? (Well I say "sharing" but we all know Jaskier probably just steals Geralt's...)

When Jaskier heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, he set his lute and notebook on the table beside the plate of food he’d brought up from the tavern. The door opened, and he turned to Geralt with a smile and narrowed eyes as he conducted his usual post-hunt evaluation.

Geralt was upright. Excellent start. His hands weren’t attempting to hold any internal organs in place. Also excellent. Lovely golden eyes, so no nasty lingering potion effects.

All in all, the night seemed to have gone well if one ignored that Geralt was covered head to toe in some viscous red fluid of indeterminate origin.

Jasier’s gesture encompassed Geralt’s whole body. “Is any of that from you?”

Geralt grunted. “Not much.”

“That could mean anything. Give me a percentage.”

With an adorable crinkle of his brow, Geralt looked down at himself. “Ten?”

“That’s lower than usual. Well done, darling!”

Geralt snorted and began to strip off his dripping armor. The maids had just brought up a copper tub filled with hot water, and Jaskier grabbed the bucket he’d asked for and dipped it in to draw out a reserve of clean washing water. He gathered up some soap, lavender oil, and clean cloths from their packs and set everything within easy reach of the rub. He turned back to Geralt, expecting to see his lover’s form all on display in the firelight, but instead Geralt was frowning and fumbling with one of his bracers.

When Jaskier came near and saw the state of Geralt’s hands, he gasped and took him by the wrists. The leather of his gloves over his palms was abraded almost to nonexistence as was the skin beneath. Dried blood was caked into every crease and line.

“That’s the ten percent,” Geralt said.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, you could have said.” Jaskier winced harder than Geralt as he slowly peeled away the remaining leather. “What happened?”

“I got dragged.”

Jaskier looked up with a frown. “Dragged where?”

“Over some rocks. Toward the creature’s mouth.” Geralt’s lips quirked in a small smirk. “I decided I didn’t want to go.”

“A decision I whole-heartedly approve.”

Leaning up, Jaskier tried to find a clean spot on Geralt’s face to kiss but had to give up and settle for kissing the air beside his mouth. He made quick work of removing the rest of Geralt’s armor himself, though he couldn’t help but cringe at the way the mess clung to his own skin. Once Geralt was bare, they both went to the tub, and Jaskier scrubbed his hands with vigor as Geralt sank in with a sigh. The tub wasn’t large enough to hold all of him, but he seemed content enough with his head reclined on the edge and his lower legs hanging over the sides.

Jaskier made another trip to their packs for salve and bandages. When he returned to the rub, he rolled up a towel and lifted Geralt’s head to place it under his neck. Geralt grunted his thanks and closed his eyes as Jaskier dipped a cloth into the bucket of clean water and began to wipe down his face and neck. He flung the dirty cloth to the pile of discarded armor and used a clean one to carefully dab at Geralt’s damaged hands. Once they were clean of dirt and debris, he applied the salve, wrapped them in bandages, and finished off with a kiss to each.

As he put the medical supplies away, he heard Geralt’s stomach let out a loud growl. He laughed and went to grab the plate of food from the table before returning to the tub. He ripped a small piece off the hunk of cheese and held it to Geralt’s mouth.

“Open up.”

Geralt opened his eyes instead of his lips and glared at Jaskier. “I can feed myself,” he growled.

“No doubt you could if you were willing to reopen your wounds and force me to bandage them all over again,” Jaskier retorted. “Now open up.”

Manly pride warred with logic and hunger, but when Geralt’s stomach rumbled again, he reluctantly parted his lips and took the cheese between his teeth. As he chewed, Jaskier pulled a bit of roast chicken loose and offered it next. He chattered about his day and sang snatches of the new song he was working on, and Geralt’s tension seeped away as he filled his stomach and soaked his muscles. By the time he’d cleared the plate, his eyes were half-lidded and his limbs were loose.

Jaskier set the empty plate aside, took up the soap, and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “Let’s get the rest of you clean and then you can climb into bed, all right?”

“Hmm.”

Usually Jaskier liked to linger over cleaning his lover’s body and hair, but he settled for efficiency in his race against Geralt’s sleepiness. When he was finished, he nudged Geralt to stand and hold his hands away and clear as he dumped the last of the clean water from the bucket over his head. Geralt stepped out, and Jaskier had to hurry with the towel, laughing as he tried to keep up with Geralt’s determined march toward the bed. His wolf sprawled across the mattress, face in the pillow, and Jaskier gave his arse a friendly swat before covering him with a blanket. He dropped another kiss to Geralt’s now clean hair and then turned to begin the long process of dealing with the remaining mess of soiled cloth and armor, but he paused when Geralt said his name. Golden eyes gazed at him, soft with firelight. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said. 

The words were quiet and sincere, and Jaskier could hear in them the depth of feeling that Geralt held close within his heart. He still struggled to show it, afraid that it would vanish should he let it loose in the open air, but he tried now to let Jaskier see. It was just a glimpse here and there, but those peeks warmed Jaskier the way no passionate declarations of love from anyone else ever would. He bent down to share a kiss, and Geralt closed his eyes again with a content hum.

“You’re welcome, love.”


	35. The Leap (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Geraskier confessions when they think they're about to die!
> 
> **Content warning: blood and injury**

Falling is a simple matter. One foot on earth, one foot on air. Gravity does the rest.

Leaping is something else. A decision, a choice. It’s not one Jaskier makes lightly, but he makes it nonetheless.

The Nilfgaardian soldier’s dagger, which had been at his throat, nicks the side of his neck as they tumble over the edge. The man’s scream is loud in Jaskier’s ears, far louder than Geralt’s cry from above, fading as they fall.

The cliff isn’t terribly high. He could very well survive if he doesn’t hit his head or neck. That’s up to chance. There isn’t time for logical thought or an attempt to shield any part of his body before he slams into the ground.

He lands on his left side, hip and shoulder. For what seems like a long time, he can’t breathe, which isn’t fair; if he’s dead, he doesn’t want to be aware of it. Then he manages to suck in a weak gasp. He doesn’t seem capable of much else, but that’s all right. He’ll keep breathing, and Geralt will find him. He’s sure there’s pain--there must be--but it seems as far away as the sounds of shouting and swords clashing on the cliff he jumped from. Geralt will kill them all now that they can’t restrain him by threatening Jaskier.

Unless the soldier that fell with him is still alive. But that’s up to chance too. Jaskier’s done all he can, and he’s very tired. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Geralt’s face is inches from his own. His lips are moving, his eyes are wild, and his skin is streaked with blood. The pain has reached Jaskier too, and tears streak from his eyes as a guttural groan explodes from his lips. A hand tangles in his hair, and another grasps the arm that doesn’t feel like it’s been crushed by the weight of the world.

“You’re going to be all right,” Geralt tells him. “Yenn’s on her way.”

Geralt’s eyes are red, and his face is twisted with anger, with fear, with a hundred other emotions he claims not to feel. Jaskier can’t touch him, can’t hold him, but on his next croaking exhale, he manages to repeat the words he said before he jumped.

Geralt crumples over him, bending double until he’s pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s temple.

“I love you too.”


	36. Family Matters (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user: Tired-Dad Geralt trying his best to get Ciri a bit of a happy childhood and Jask kissing him on the forehead saying ‘I’ve got this’ and getting Ciri to come out of her walls and be a kid for 10 minutes. Just found family trying their best. If that’s ok?

At the sound of raised voices, Jaskier set down his lute, sighed, and shared a look with Roach. “I don’t suppose you want to deal with that?”

When she huffed at him, he slapped his hands against his thighs and got to his feet. “Up to me then.”

Geralt and Ciri had retreated to a clearing a bit removed from their campsite so Jaskier could play and compose without the clacking of wooden practice swords as accompaniment. He appreciated the sentiment, he truly did, but when they trained without him, things tended to get… tense. By the time he reached them, Ciri’s sword was already on the ground and Geralt’s quickly followed. He set his hands on his hips, and Jaskier followed his gaze to see Ciri’s back retreating through the trees. Geralt let out a frustrated growl and then started after her. Knowing he’d get a glare of his own, Jaskier made the sacrifice to scuttle over and place himself in the Witcher’s way.

“She shouldn’t-”

“I know,” Jaskier interrupted in a soothing voice. “I’ll handle it.” He reached up to brush a strand of white hair off Geralt’s face. “Why don’t you go back to camp and get some rest? I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

Annoyance warred with exhaustion in his lover’s golden eyes, but the latter won, and Geralt let himself slump a bit. Jaskier tilted his head up and pressed a kiss against his brow. Then he gripped his shoulder, physically turned him toward the camp, and gave him a swat on the arse to get him moving. A soft chuckle was his reward, and he grinned.

He found Ciri perched on a large, flat rock beside a creek with deep banks. When he sat cross-legged beside her, she didn’t look up from the little pile of pebbles she was tossing into the water. He helped himself to a few, and they sat in a silence broken only by the sounds of the woods and the little plunks as the pebbles broke the water’s surface.

As the last one sank to join its fellows on the creek bed, Ciri sighed. “I know I’m not supposed to run off on my own.”

“Eh, you didn’t go far.” Jaskier pulled up his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. “When Geralt tried to teach me to swordfight, I stomped off to the next village and didn’t see him for five months.”

Ciri whipped to face him, brilliant eyes wide, and he smiled. “It was early in our acquaintance. We weren’t always the picture of harmonious domesticity we are now.”

With an amused huff, Ciri looked back to the creek, and then she sighed again. “He’s just so…”

“Impatient?” Jaskier offered. “Pig-headed? Stubborn?”

“Yes,” Ciri agreed emphatically, and Jaskier laughed. “It’s like he expects me to do everything perfect on the first try, and then he gets mad when I don’t. And when I try to ask what I’m doing wrong, he just says to ‘do it better.’” She growled out the last words in imitation of Geralt’s gruff voice. “How am I supposed to fix what I’m doing wrong if I don’t know what it is?”

Jaskier nodded. “I think--and I don’t mean this to excuse him--but I think it’s been so long since he learned these things that he can’t even articulate what he’s doing. It’s all muscle memory, and the technique bypasses his brain completely. He may be as frustrated as you are that he can’t explain.”

“But you’re not like that when you show me things on your lute,” Ciri said.

Another laugh left Jaskier. “Well, I’m not _quite_ as old as Geralt. And some of my professors at Oxenfurt might have been right bastards, but I’m betting they were a damn sight more patient than a Witcher swordmaster.”

“I think some of it is just Geralt,” Ciri grumbled.

“You’re not wrong,” Jaskier agreed cheerfully.

Ciri raked long blond hair out of her face and blew out a loud breath. “So what do I do?”

“We keep trying, all of us. We’re still learning how to make this work. But I’m not giving up, and neither is Geralt.” Jaskier leaned over to bump their shoulders together. “And I doubt the lion cub of Cintra will either.”

He got to his feet and offered her his arm. “At any rate, Your Highness, I think it’s high time I instructed you in the fighting form held most sacred by bards across the Continent.”

She rose as gracefully as if she wore a gown of finest silk and tucked her hand into his elbow. “And what is that?”

He looked about them as though checking for unseen listeners and then bent close to her ear. “Tavern brawling.”

Her giggle ended in a soft snort, and he grinned as they headed back toward the clearing.

“For your first lesson, we’ll discuss the style favored by your grandfather, King Eist,” he began. “He was a master of the art. At your parents’ betrothal feast, I saw him knock a man unconscious with a chair…”


	37. Julian (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt for an anonymous user on Tumblr: I love your writing a lot and I'm very much in a hurt/comfort mood so I wanted to ask if perhaps you'd be willing to write some hurt!jaskier with discussions of him not having a fantastic homelife as a kid (child abuse). 
> 
> **Content warning: mentions of child abuse**

The wyvern bled from a dozen wounds, and Geralt could see its movements slowing. He’d cornered it an abandoned ruin and now stood between it and the archway that led to the field beyond. The ruins were open to the air above them, but he’d sliced through the tendons in both wings. The wyvern howled with increasing desperation, and when it snapped its jaws, Geralt waited until the last moment to dive aside, letting his sword rake across its snout.

“Geralt!”

“Stay back!” he shouted at Jaskier, who hid behind a pile of tumbled stone.

The exchange drew the wyvern’s attention to Jaskier, who huddled back when the creature’s head turned toward him.

“Shit,” Geralt muttered. He dashed forward, hacking at the wyvern’s neck.

It let out a bellow of pain and fury, and as it whipped to face the new assault, its tail smashed through Jaskier’s meager shelter. The bard flew back several feet and slammed into the corner, knocking down the remnants of a broken cabinet. Geralt could see him struggling to free himself from the detritus of wood and stone, but he was moving and alive, so Geralt refocused on the wyvern. He dodged the jaws again, circled around the creature’s shoulder, and leapt. At the apex of his leap, he brought his sword up, and as he fell back to earth, he let his blade fall as well. It sliced through the wyvern’s scales and severed its spine. The beast fell with a final cry, and the body heaved to its side, where it twitched and tremored and then went still.

Geralt took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool evening air. Then he walked around the dead wyvern’s head to the corner where Jaskier had been thrown.

“You all right?” he called as he approached.

“Ow, my hand!” came the response, but there was something strange about Jaskier’s voice.

With a frown, Geralt stalked toward him, only to stop short when he caught his first glimpse of the figure sitting in the rubble. He was wearing Jaskier’s clothes, but the doublet sagged over too small shoulders and bunched at the elbows. Holding one hand by the wrist with the other, the figure looked up at Geralt. The wide blue eyes were familiar, but the face they looked out from was boyish and smooth. The boy staggered to his feet, still clutching one hand to his chest, and he was nearly a head shorter than Jaskier should have been. He gazed around the clearing with a gaping mouth and then turned back to Geralt with a scrunched brow.

“Where the fuck am I?” he demanded. He released his injured hand to wave at Geralt. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

The boy’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Your name is Jaskier? No offense, but that’s kind of a weird name.”

“No, that’s…” Geralt growled in frustration and closed his eyes before looking the boy over again. “Julian?” he tried.

“Yes?” the boy answered. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait. How do you know my name?” He suddenly scrambled back, and the sharp smell of fear spiked in the air. “Did… did my father send you?”

“What? No.” Geralt scowled as he looked around the ruin, desperate to come up with some explanation as to why he was talking to what appeared to be an eleven-year-old version of his bard.

“Oh, holy hells!” the boy exclaimed. He scuttled out from the corner, giving Geralt a wide berth but walking toward the wyvern corpse without a shred of hesitation. “What is this thing?”

“A wyvern,” Geralt grunted.

The boy wrinkled his nose when he got close. “Is it dead?”

“Yes.”

When he turned to look at Geralt, the boy tilted his head. “Did you kill it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” The grin that spread across the boy’s face was one Geralt had seen a hundred times, and he felt something in his chest clench. “That’s amazing!”

The boy hurried to him, no trace of fear remaining. “Are you a knight? No, wait!” The blue eyes widened. “Are you a Witcher? Do you kill monsters? I’ve never met a Witcher before. How did you kill it? No, wait.” The boy shook his head, interrupting his own ramble. “No. You should tell me how I got here first. I don’t remember.” His face twisted. “Is that bad? That I don’t remember? Did something happen to me?”

The boy held his chin high, but Geralt could see the faint tremble of his jaw. Under the circumstances, Geralt decided to err on the side of keeping him calm until he could figure out what the hell was going on.

“It’s all right,” Geralt told him. “You’re safe.” He scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “Uh… the wyvern took you, and your parents hired me to find you.”

The boy--Julian--huffed. “You mean Mother hired you. Father was probably thrilled.”

Geralt didn’t have a response to that. “Are you hurt?”

Julian glanced back at the corner where he’d fallen. “There was a broken bottle. It cut my hand.”

“Can you show me?” When Julian approached him with his hand outstretched, Geralt shook his head. “I’ll look at that in a minute. I meant to show me the bottle.”

Frowning, Julian turned and led him back to the pile of wood that had been a cabinet. He pointed to a scattering of glass shards on the ground, blue and pearlescent in the fading sunlight. Geralt crouched down, picked up a shard, and held it to his nose. It smelled of a few different herbs and a faint hint of ozone. Magic.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder at Julian. “There was a potion in this bottle. It might have gotten into your body through that cut.”

Julian’s eyes went round, and the scent of fear cut the air again. “Am I… is something going to happen to me?”

It already had, but the boy clearly didn’t know that. “Probably not. How do you feel?”

“My hand hurts. And… I’m hungry,” Julian admitted. As if on cue, the boy's stomach growled.

Geralt rose from his crouch and nodded. “We’ll head back to my camp. It’s too late to travel now. In the morning, I’ll…” _Take you to Yennefer and pray to all the gods she can fix this_. “... take you to your parents.”

The bright smile returned to Julian’s face as he nodded. “I’ve never been camping!” He stepped forward to hurry toward Geralt but tripped over the too-long trousers. He grasped the excess material and yanked it up so he could walk. “What happened to my clothes? Is this because of the potion?”

“Hmm… maybe.” 

The idea was ridiculous, but Julian’s excitement over sleeping outdoors outweighed any further curiosity. As they walked back to camp, he prattled on about his life, talking about his house, his lessons, his friends among the servants, his mother. His father was not mentioned again. By the time they reached the clearing where they’d left Roach, Geralt knew more about Jaskier’s childhood than he ever had before.

Before he could stop him, Julian ran straight to Roach. “Oh, she’s beautiful!” Geralt braced for the inevitable bite Roach gave to strangers, but she just stood calmly while the boy stroked her neck and fussed over her mane. Either she knew it was Jaskier or she was more patient with children than he would have guessed.

Julian smiled at Geralt over his shoulder. “I have a horse. Her name is Buttercup. My riding teacher says I spoil her, but she’s such a good horse. How can I not sneak her treats?”

That was an all-too-familiar refrain, and Geralt snorted as he gathered a waterskin and some salve and bandages from his pack. He pointed Julian toward a fallen log near where he would build up the fire. “Sit there. Let me see to that hand.”

The boy sat, and when Geralt joined him, he held out his hand without the slightest hesitation. Geralt poured the water from the skin over the scratches, and though Julian winced as he cleaned the wounds, he didn’t whine or complain. Geralt was surprised and a little impressed. Given that the small hand was soft and fine, clearly the hand of a noble, he hadn’t expected the boy to maintain such equanimity in the face of a hurt like this. He glanced at the boy’s face, and Julian’s jaw was set; his eyes had gone distant and dim. If Geralt had to put a name to the look, he would have called the boy resigned. 

As if pain was something he was used to. As if feeling it was somehow a common occurrence in his pampered life.

Geralt remembered how Julian had shown no fear in the face of the wyvern’s corpse or even Geralt himself… except when he thought his father had sent him.

Geralt used a light touch to spread salve across the cuts. “Why did you think your father sent me if not to save you?”

Julian was quiet. Geralt set down the pot of salve and took up the bandages, but before he began wrapping Julian’s hand, he looked at the boy’s face. Jaskier’s eyes looked back, and Geralt felt something in his chest squeeze again.

After a long moment, Julian let out a gusty sigh. “My father says I need to toughen up. That I’m too…” He waved his uninjured hand on a vague circle. “I don’t know. Too weak or something.” He propped one of his feet on the log and laid his cheek against his knee. “He… sometimes he has men come to our house. Tutors, he calls them. They’re supposed to teach me to fight, but they… they mostly just knock me around.” 

A small tremor went through him; Geralt could feel it in the hand he still held. “They knock me harder after I’ve done something to displease Father,” he continued in a quieter voice. “I think he tells them to.”

The stab of anger that shot to Geralt was stronger than he’d felt in a long time. He wondered if Jaskier’s father was still alive. He wondered if the man had ever faced justice for hiring thugs to beat his son so he wouldn’t get his hands dirty doing it himself.

Knowing the way the world worked, he doubted it.

“Why do you have a lute?” 

Julian’s sudden question brought him back to the current situation. The boy’s smile had returned on spotting the instrument. “Do you play?” he asked eagerly.

Geralt shook his head as he began to bandage Julian’s hand. “No. That belongs to a friend. I’m… holding it for him.”

“I love the lute! It’s my favorite instrument. My music tutor is the only one I actually like. He says I’m really good!” Pride shone bright in the boy’s eyes, and Geralt couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward in a smile.

He finished with the bandages and then set about making the fire and readying the camp for the night. Julian began to talk again, with occasional asides to Roach about Buttercup, and he even sang a few songs. His voice was still a high, clear soprano, and though it was pleasant, Geralt felt a pang of longing for his friend’s usual tenor. He interrupted one song to give the boy some bread and dried rabbit, and though Julian complained that it was dry and chewy, he still ate every scrap, even licking his fingers after. Geralt laid out Jaskier’s bedroll, and after he finished eating, Julian wriggled into it with obvious enthusiasm.

“This is so amazing,” he said for the tenth time. “I mean, the ground’s a little hard and it’s a little cold, but look at the stars!” He swept his arms wide in an expansive gesture. “They’re so beautiful! Like little jewels or gems or something.” He rolled over and propped his head on one hand to watch Geralt clean and sharpen his swords. “Do you always camp like this?”

“Much of the time. I stay in inns when I have the coin.”

“Have you traveled all over? Have you seen the whole Continent?”

Geralt huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably not the whole thing but quite a bit.”

“I’m going to see the whole thing,” Julian declared, flopping onto his back. “Every little bit.”

“Go to sleep, Julian.”

The boy blew out a loud breath. “Fine. Good night, Geralt. Thank you for saving me.”

He rolled to his side and snuggled down into the bedroll until only a shock of brown hair peeked out. If he pretended the lump beneath the blankets was slightly bigger, Geralt could imagine everything was normal. When he was finished with his swords, he put them away and then settled on the ground beside the log for a night of meditation.

He was roused in the morning by a series of grunts from the bedroll across the remains of the campfire. Opening his eyes, he watched as an adult Jaskier freed himself from the tangle of blankets, blinking and yawning and scratching at his hair. He smiled blearily at Geralt. “I had the strangest dream. I dreamt that I…”

His words cut off as he yelped. He held up his bandaged hand; his fingers were going purple at the tips. “Ow, ow, _ow_. Too tight. Much too tight. Geralt…” he whined. 

Geralt rose to his feet and crossed to Jaskier’s side in a few long strides. Kneeling down beside him, he pulled out his belt knife and sliced through the restrictive bandages. Jaskier sighed in relief and stretched out his fingers. Then he bit his lower lip and met Geralt’s gaze.

“Not a dream then?” he asked.

“Not a dream,” Geralt confirmed.

Jaskier released an awkward-sounding laugh. “Wow, so you were subjected to adolescent me. I’m surprised you didn’t throttle me in my sleep.”

After what the young Julian had revealed to him, the comment made Geralt’s stomach twist. “You never told me-” he started, but Jaskier cut him off with an upraised hand.

“No, I didn’t,” he declared in a firm voice. “It was decades ago and entirely irrelevant to who and what I am now.”

Geralt wasn’t convinced of that, but it wasn’t his place to say, so he just hummed in response. He got to his feet and gazed down at Jaskier; he’d brought up a knee to rest his head against just as he had the night before.

“It shouldn't have happened,” Geralt said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Jaskied looked up at him, eyes wide in surprise. But then they softened, and he smiled up at Geralt. “Thank you, Geralt. I know that now--I think I even knew it then--but… well, I appreciate you saying it.”

Geralt nodded and turned to start packing up the camp. “Changed your mind about Jaskier being a weird name, hmm? I can’t believe you named yourself after a horse.”

“I didn’t… I mean, that wasn’t the _whole_ … she was a good horse! And at least she wasn’t named after a fish! Of all the names you could have chosen, Geralt...”

As the familiar rant continued, Geralt smiled to himself. Julian had been surprisingly good company, but he was glad to have his Jaskier back.


	38. Let Me (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user animaniac1017: Geraskier established relationship + emotional hurt/comfort prompt idea? Jaskier is annoyed at Geralt for whatever reason so he decides to make him jealous and starts flirting/dancing/etc. with people at whatever inn/tavern they’re at, but instead of getting angry and possessive Geralt just leaves and returns to their room. Jaskier is understandably upset and goes to confront Geralt about it but finds that the reason Geralt left was because he assumed Jaskier had finally gotten tired of him and realized he deserves better than a broody witcher. Reassuring fluff ensues Idk, just an idea for if you’re still accepting prompts

Stomping up the stairs to the inn is maybe _a little_ childish, but Jaskier doesn’t care. He will stomp if he wants to. He will burst through the door of their room. He will verbally berate his Witcher for being rude all afternoon and for leaving the tavern while he was still playing, and then he will have supremely satisfying makeup sex with the man.

This marvelous plan falls to pieces when he flings open the door to find Geralt faltering mid-step, completely dressed and armored, swords and pack across his back.

“What the hell, Geralt?” He kicks the door shut behind him. “Where are you going?”

From the corner of his eye as he sets down his lute, he can see Geralt’s fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You can have the room.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. And people say I’m melodramatic. I’m not petty enough to kick you out in the dead of night because of a little tiff.” He glances toward the downpour out the window. “Well… not when it’s raining anyway.”

“I don’t want to stay.”

The words are like an unexpected blow, and for a moment, Jaskier swears he’s falling. The mountaintop had left a scar on his heart, and he feels it give a threatening throb, as if it will tear open and split him straight down the middle. A nasty voice in his head (which sounds a great deal like his father) says that of course, _of course_ , one of the rare instances where Geralt actually fucking says what he wants or doesn’t want, it’s to say he doesn’t want Jaskier.

Then he takes a breath.

“Can you explain that for me?” When Geralt doesn’t answer, when he just keeps staring at the floor, Jaskier goes to stand in front of him, hands on his hips. “No,” he insists. “If you’re walking out on me, you _will_ look me in the eye as you do it.”

Geralt raises his head. His jaw is clenched so tightly Jaskier expects to hear something crack, and anyone who hadn't stared at him for more than twenty eyes would have called his eyes hard. But hard is not right. They are brittle. They are a thin layer of ice covering over a deep lake, and if Jaskier does not step very carefully, they could both very well drown.

“I know neither of us was at his best today,” he says quietly, “but are you truly so angry that you want to leave without me?”

Geralt’s eyelids fall shut with a heaviness, a weariness that speaks of more than a century of life. “I’m not angry.”

Jaskier takes a tiny step closer, just enough to feel Geralt’s warmth on his skin. “Then what are you?”

“I’m…” But the Witcher can’t finish. He sighs, licks his lips.

With gentle fingers, Jaskier traces the contours of his cheekbones. “What are you?”

When Geralt opens his eyes, Jaskier can see a hundred cracks where the ice waits to fall apart. “I’m in your way.”

Glancing back at the door behind him, Jaskier tries for a slight smile. “I think it’s rather the other way around, darling.”

Geralt reaches up to the hand that lingers on his face and takes Jaskier’s wrist to set it at his side. “You belong with other people. You belong with someone like… like the woman downstairs.”

“You mean Rosie? The barmaid?” Relief hits Jaskier so hard he can’t help but laugh. “Is that what this is about? Oh, sweetheart, that was nothing. You know that. She flopped in my lap and I gave her a little cuddle, but I had _no_ intention of doing anything else.” He sways forward to press his hands against Geralt’s chest. “Except maybe making you a teensy bit jealous. Reminding you that the man you came with is someone to be admired.”

Geralt steps back so suddenly that Jaskier nearly stumbles. “So find someone to admire you.”

Jaskier’s heart throbs again, and his hands return to his hips. “And here I thought I had. Was I wrong?”

Geralt half-turns away and then spins back, words bursting from his lips. “Dammit, Jaskier! I can’t give you what they can! I can never give you what you deserve!”

“And what is that exactly?” Jaskier snaps back. “What do I deserve that you can’t give me?”

“A home! A family!” He stalks toward Jaskier trembling with coiled tension, a man-made predator. “ _A life_.”

“Hmm, that’s very interesting,” Jaskier retorts. He taps a finger against his lips. “That’s very interesting because here, all this time, I was under the impression that I had a life. A life that I _chose_. A life that brings me a great deal of joy and satisfaction.” Letting out a theatrically loud sigh, he lets his arms drop to his sides. “But _clearly_ you know better than I do what I want.”

For a moment, Geralt moves to shoulder past him, but Jaskier sidesteps to block him, and Geralt, to Jaskier’s very great relief, lets him.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no, love. You are not going anywhere. And neither am I. And I will tell you why.”

He cups Geralt’s jaw in his hands, framing his face and staring deep into the open depths of golden eyes. “Because today, when I was exhausted from spending three days and nights in the rain, when I had mud in places no man should ever have mud, when I was cross and hungry and ready to kill for a warm bed and a decent meal, I was still happier than I ever thought I could possibly be. Because I _love_ our life. Because I _love_ seeing the world. Because I can imagine no life that could even _begin_ to compare to walking by your side. Do you understand?”

And Geralt, his dear, darling, magnificent wolf, looks back at him, lost and hurting.

“No,” he murmurs.

Jaskier wants to close his eyes, wants to cry, wants to track down each and every person who ever made Geralt feel unwanted and strangle them with the strings of his lute, but instead he kisses him. He kisses his lips and his jaw and his ear and pushes closer and closer until he can wrap his arms around the man he loves.

And gradually, slowly, Geralt lifts his arms and returns the embrace. Long minutes pass, but the rigid tension that threatened to snap seeps away, and Jaskier is there to hold him as he lets it go.

“Then I’ll show you,” Jaskier tells him. “I will show you and tell you and sing to you and love you until you do understand.” He tightens his hold. “Will you let me?”

He waits. He waits and hopes and prays.

And when Geralt nods, he breathes.


	39. Morning Training (Established; outsider POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user weiwei-le: Sorry this is my first time doing prompts so I have no idea if I'm doing this right. Anyway here's an Geraskier idea that has been stuck in my head for a while: They spent the winter in Kaer Morhen. One day Geralt showed up with flowers braided in his hair and his brothers aka Eskel and Lambert thought it was Ciri and they teased him about "letting the sweet one take over" or "spoiling the sweet one". Geralt just Hmmed and didn't deny it.Turned out Jaskier was the sweet one.  
> \---
> 
> This was a bit tough because I haven’t gotten far enough in the games or books to experience Eskel and Lambert, so I used what I’ve gleaned from fan works. Hopefully it’s not too far off!

At Geralt’s appearance at morning training, Eskel grinned and Lambert laughed loud enough to echo through the courtyard and send the birds roosting in the eaves into the air. Geralt didn’t acknowledge them, just went to collect a blunted sword from the practice rack.

“Is that a part of training now?” Lambert asked. He waved a hand toward Geralt’s elaborate braid and the delicate flowers woven through it. “Are we all supposed to roam around the Continent looking like a maid at her first Belleteyn?”

“You could start by bathing more than once a month,” Geralt retorted as he swung the sword to test its balance.

“He likes to smell worse than his prey,” Eskel said. “He thinks his stench will make up for his weak sword arm.”

“How’s this for a weak arm?” Lambert demanded as he punched Eskel hard in the shoulder.

Before Eskel could retaliate with more than a laugh, the sound of running feet drew their attention to the stairs. Ciri came bolting down, and Lambert groaned as he saw the decorated braid flying behind her.

“Another one? This isn’t the Cintran court, princess.”

“Good thing too,” Ciri said as she stopped before them, catching her breath. “If you’d ever shown up smelling like you do, my grandmother would have knocked you on your arse.”

“Is that right?” Lambert stalked to the practice rack to retrieve a weapon for himself. “Let’s see if those soft hands of yours are good for more than fancying Geralt’s locks.”

Geralt extended his sword to Ciri hilt first and walked over to join Eskel where he stayed leaning against the fence surrounding the practice yard. They watched Lambert and Ciri cross swords, the clang of the weapons punctuated by increasingly ridiculous insults that had the pair panting with laughter as much as exertion.

From the balcony of the main living tower, strains of music floated down, the complex scales of the bard’s own training. Eskel glanced over at Geralt, and he smiled to see the soft look that crossed his brother’s face when a clear tenor voice joined the melody.

“Wasn’t Ciri who did the braids, was it?”

Geralt just hummed before elbowing him in the side and going to collect another training weapon. Eskel followed. As they armed themselves and took their stances, Jaskier walked out onto the balcony. Eskel lifted his hand in greeting, and the bard grinned and bowed to him, playing and singing all the while.

“Shall I go easy on you?” Eskel asked Geralt. “Let you impress your beau?”

“I’ve never needed you to go easy to beat you.”

“Oho! On your guard then, pretty one.” Eskel grinned as he raised his sword. “I’ll try not to ruin your hair.”


	40. That's New (Established; non-human Jaskier AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: may I ask: half-elf Jaskier reveal w/ forehead kisses

From the corner of his eye, Geralt could see Jaskier fumbling with the heavy padlock sealing the crypt they’d been backed against, but he didn’t take his focus off the large group of necrophages closing in on them. He’d been so fucking stupid to get them cornered like this, and Jaskier would pay the price with an agonizing death.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” the bard breathed. The thick scent of his terror lingered on Geralt’s tongue.

“Jaskier,” he barked, and the man looked up at him with despairing eyes. “I’ll boost you up and you can climb to the roof of the crypt. The other side may be clear. You can climb down and get away.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you!”

Ignoring him, Geralt raised his hand in the sign of Aard and shoved the magic at the encroaching horde. As before, it knocked back three or four of the creatures, but the rest kept coming. He cast twice more, but by the time the last group fell, the first was up and shambling toward them once again. Against all his instincts, Geralt dropped his sword and turned to Jaskier, hands clasped before him for the bard to step on.

“Now, Jaskier!” When the bard shook his head, eyes wide in horror, Geralt grabbed him by the shoulder and bodily turned him to face the crypt. He knelt down, forcing his hands under Jaskier’s boot and lifting. “Fucking climb!” he spat.

Jaskier kicked at him, and they both lost their balance, tumbling in a heap at the base of the crypt. Geralt felt Jaskier clutching at his hand, twining their fingers together, and he wanted to scream in frustration and despair.

“This isn’t some romantic last stand, Jaskier!” he shouted.

Jaskier looked up at him, and his eyes were so blue. Had they always been that blue? And was Geralt such a stupid lovestruck shit that he was going to spend his last moments gazing into his lover’s eyes instead of getting the fool to safety?

A warmth flowed out of Jaskier’s hand and into Geralt’s. The fucking gods had a sense of humor that he would feel fucking tenderness in this moment. But then the warmth turned into a pulse of heat, deep and heavy, and Jaskier’s eyes flashed a blue brighter than any human eyes could.

“Cast Aard,” he whispered.

There wasn’t time to argue. As the first necrophage reached out skeletal claws to snatch Jaskier from his grasp, Geralt raised his hand and cast. The wave of force that emerged pressed them back against the crypt and sent all of the necrophages flying. He heard a chorus of bones cracking as the creatures slammed against the ground and the surrounding trees hard enough to break apart. Jaskier slumped beside him, barely held upright by Geralt’s hand.

“Jaskier.” Geralt shifted them on the ground and pulled the limp bard against his chest. His eyes were closed, and his head lolled against Geralt’s shoulder. “Jaskier!”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open, no longer bright and glowing. “Ah, fuck,” he muttered, and he pressed the heel of one hand against his temple.

“What the fuck was that?” Geralt snapped. His heart wouldn’t settle, wouldn’t stop its headlong, panicked gallop.

With a wince, Jaskier untangled himself from Geralt and turned to sit against the crypt, head leaned back on the cold stone. “I don’t know. Not really.”

“But you knew something would happen,” Geralt insisted.

Jaskier sighed. “I’ve never done it like that before.”

“Done what?” Geralt demanded.

“My lute,” Jaskier said, rolling his head toward Geralt. “It’s enchanted. If I… feed it with… I don’t know… energy or chaos or what-have-you, I can affect people.” He raised a hand in a feeble gesture. “Their feelings and what-not. I think Filavandrel must have known when he gave it to me.”

The idea that Jaskier could use an enchantment, that he could call on magic, and that Geralt had traveled beside him for decades, loved him for years, and not seen? He wanted to snort in disbelief and cuff the man about the head for playing the fool.

But his hand still tingled, and destroyed necrophages still littered the ground around them.

“What did Filavandrel know?” he asked.

Jaskier huffed a laugh and closed his eyes. “Let’s just say, in retrospect, some of the offhand comments my mother made about me being just like my father were clearly not about her husband.”

Geralt spoke the words before his doubts could hide them away again. “You’re a half-elf.”

Jaskier nodded. “I suspect as much. Or quarter or something.” He opened his eyes and gazed at Geralt with the kind of serious expression that he never showed the world and only rarely showed Geralt. “I honestly had no idea. I can clearly pass for full-human, a fact that no doubt brought my mother significant relief upon my birth. And I don’t like using the enchantment on the lute.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, any bard worth his salt can move an audience to emotion with his music alone.” Sighing, Jaskier raised a hand to his head and massaged the space between his brows. “Secondly, it gives me a headache.”

“You have one now?” Geralt asked. He shifted closer, and Jaskier accepted the unspoken invitation, leaning his head against Geralt’s shoulder.

“A whopper,” he murmured. “Though that could be partly fading adrenaline. I wasn’t sure it would work. Or how.”

“You could have hurt yourself,” Geralt noted. “You should have run.”

“Oh, hush. You’re just bitter because you aren’t the only magical one in this relationship anymore.” The words were lighthearted, but Jaskier’s tone was quiet, barely audible in the now silent graveyard. His fingers plucked at the grass between them.

“You don’t… you don’t mind, do you?” he said after a moment passed. “I know I should have said something, but for the most part, I don’t even think of it. On some level, I wondered if I weren’t imagining the whole thing.”

Geralt considered. Perhaps if it had come out early in their acquaintance, he would have felt anger, would have felt deceived, would have demanded an accounting. But they had been side by side, hand in hand, season after season, until the strands that made them were too knotted to separate. Each knew the other, and was known in turn, too deeply to imagine new details could fundamentally alter the shape of their life together.

With a slight turn of his head, Geralt could touch his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t mind.”

Jaskier curled around his arm and tucked his face into Geralt’s neck. “Well, that’s good then. I declare this day a success. We’re still alive, and unless something eats us, we’ll likely stay that way for a good long while.”

Elven blood could keep Jaskier alive longer than a full human. The warmth that filled Geralt at the thought had little to do with magic.

“If you want to stay uneaten, you should run when I say to.”

“That’s a funny way of saying, ‘Thank you for saving us, Jaskier.’”

“Hmmm.”

“You’re welcome.”


	41. Old Marrieds Gain a New Friend (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: If your prompts are still open, maybe you could do some retired shenanigans? Like they’re on the coast and just act like dummies together?

Geralt stood in the doorway of the cottage, leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

“No.”

“But Geraaaalt…”

“No.”

“But he's lost and all alone, Geralt.” With an exaggerated pout that did not belong on the face of a man in his sixth decade, Jaskier held up the tiny tabby kitten in his hands. “He’ll die if we don’t save him.”

“That’s what you said about the other three. And the dog. And the goat.”

“And thanks to us, they are all alive and well! Just as I predicted.”

“They won’t be if you keep adding more mouths to feed than we can afford.”

“Pfft,” Jaskier scoffed. “My latest poetry collection is already on its third printing. Coin is the least of our problems, love.”

“And the greatest of our problems--the greatest of _my_ problems--is that I’m the one who gets up at dawn to feed them all.”

Jaskier offered him a sheepish smile. “Well, if you’re getting up anyway, what’s one more, eh?”

Taking a deep breath, Geralt closed his eyes. He didn't even startle when he felt soft fur brush against his face. Jaskier sidled up beside him and laughed when the kitten in his hands laid a paw on Geralt’s face and used the other to bat at the white hair falling across his cheek.

“He likes you!” Jaskier sing-songed. “We’ll call this one Geralt Junior!”

Geralt opened his eyes and stared down his lover. The intimidation was lessened by the use of his hair as a cat toy. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he growled.

The kitten meowed, and Geralt sighed. “Yes. You’re cute too,” he told him.

Jaskier laughed and leaned up to kiss him. When the jealous kitten swiped at his nose, causing him to yelp, Geralt didn’t feel the least bit bad.


	42. Mating Dance (Getting together)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: if you want and like the idea how about jaskier showing off some dancing/acrobatics mad skills (or both omg I just live for competent!jaskier)? and geralt being absolutely dumbstruck about it and also being a little (a lot) turned on about it.

To celebrate the deaths of the wraiths that had been haunting their fields, the villagers lit a bonfire in their square. The ale was plentiful, as were the local spirits, which were considerably stronger. The village was a prosperous one when not harassed by monsters, and in high summer, the fruits gathered from the orchards and the berries picked from the woods weighed down the tables hastily brought outside for the impromptu celebration. Tarts and pies of every style and shape sat alongside wheels of cheese and bowls full of curds. The men roasted haunches of venison over fire pits, and the mayor had even ordered the slaughter of a suckling pig. He pressed the finest cuts on Geralt and Jaskier.

Geralt had spent the first several hours of the feast braced for the inevitable catch, waiting for the expressions of gratitude to turn to jeers even as Jaskier elbowed his side and chastised him to smile more. But as the sun sank below the horizon (and after draining his tankard several times), he settled into the peace of it all. No one bothered him where he sat on a thick log pressed into service as seating. No one tried to engage him in conversation. No one stared. Well, almost no one. As he licked the juice from the last of three strawberry tarts he’d eaten off his fingers, he caught the girl who’d brought them glancing his way. When he raised his tankard in salute to her fine baking, she turned back to her friends, blushing and giggling.

From across the bonfire, Jaskier’s laugh rang out, loud even among the general conversation. The bard’s ruddy face was evidence of more than just the exertion of the songs he’d sung; Geralt had lost count of how many drinks had been pressed on him, and he imagined Jaskier had too. Yet, as he launched into a story of his own, he hopped onto another log without the slightest bobble. He paced back and forth along its length, swinging an imaginary sword in wild motions that Geralt guessed were meant to imitate his battle with the wraiths. He was certain he hadn’t wasted half as much energy or looked half as foolish, but the villagers were delighted. When Jaskier acted out a final parry and slash, the crowd gathered about him cheered. He bowed deeply and hopped off his log to smile and chat with his numerous new friends.

As Geralt raised his tankard to his lips, he allowed himself a small smile. Jaskier was in his element, well-fed, admired. He deserved a night of good food and rapt attention. He deserved far more in truth, but for some reason, he had abandoned it all to sleep rough and live dangerously alongside a Witcher. Why anyone, particularly any human, would choose to walk the Path was beyond Geralt, but he no longer harbored any doubts when Jaskier said he was where he wished to be. The decades that had passed proved him honest, at least in regard to that.

From beyond the circle of the bonfire, a horn blew, and the villagers cheered. As one, they moved toward the sound. The children ran ahead while young mothers set toddlers on their hips and young fathers offered their sturdy arms to the older folk. Jaskier’s admirers swept him along with them, and Geralt rose from his log to follow at a slower pace. He was mostly sure that human sacrifice would not be the end of the evening, but stranger things had happened to them in their travels.

The crowd’s destination was nothing more insidious than an old, unused barn swept free of hay and debris. Braziers lit the space, making shadows dance and leap among the rafters. Along the walls sat what looked like every chair in the village, and they were quickly claimed by those with yawning mouths and weary feet. Most of the young people and many of the not-quite-so-young gathered in the wide open center. Several wooden pallets had been pushed together to form a makeshift stage, and a piper, a drummer, and a fiddler took their places upon it. Geralt expected Jaskier to join them, but when the bard didn’t appear, he prowled the edges of the gathering, inspecting the crowd for signs of the bard. His heart settled when he saw Jaskier in the middle of a group of men. He said something while he swung and stretched his arms, and they all laughed and clapped him on the back. Geralt stayed in the spot he’d staked out, leaning against a post from where he could keep an eye on the proceedings.

The drummer beat out a steady rhythm on his large, wood-framed drum, and the crowd took it as a cue to form two long lines. Another smile curved Geralt’s lips as he watched Jaskier. He had stripped to his shirtsleeves, as had most of the men on the floor. His brow was creased in concentration, and his tongue peeked out as it did whenever he was thinking. His fingers tapped the rhythm of the drum against his leg, and his head bobbed in the slightest nod in time. As the horn that had called them to the barn sounded again, Jaskier’s eyes fell upon Geralt. He had just enough time to throw off a smirk and a saucy salute, and then the piper and the fiddler launched into a lively melody, and the dancers cheered and leapt forward.

Geralt had witnessed his fair share of court balls and country dances, and he recognized the rough outlines of this one. The lines circled and wove together, breaking apart and coming together in different combinations. The dancers jumped and kicked; the men swung the women into their arms and spun them away again. At one point, the women ran at the men, and the men hoisted them up by the waist. The beauty propped by her hands on Jaskier’s shoulders gazed down at him with a besotted grin. Even from a distance, Geralt could see the wink and squeeze Jaskier offered her before setting her free.

Then the music changed. The drum beat out a quicker pulse; the pipe and fiddle went low. The crowd let out a shout in a language Geralt didn’t recognize, and the line of women quickly reformed. They clasped their hands across each other’s shoulders and began a series of interlocking steps and kicks. Each woman’s feet flicked and stamped and crossed across the ankles and calves of her neighbors without a single stumble. They finished with a synchronized leaping kick and landed with an authoritative stomp that shook the walls of the barn. The women watching from the chairs exploded in raucous cheers and whistles.

The men took up the challenge that the women had clearly intended, and Geralt’s eyebrows lifted as Jaskier joined their line, right at the center. His tongue was sticking out again, but he didn’t hesitate to slap his hands over the shoulders of the men beside him. When the music started its frantic pace again, Jaskier leapt to motion in perfect time with the others. 

Geralt’s gaze narrowed to capture Jaskier’s every movement. His feet were a blur of coordinated steps. He kept his head high, grinning at the line of women even as drops of sweat dripped down the side of his temple. His hands gripped his neighbors’ shirts at the shoulder, fingers clenched tight in the fabric. His hips rocked as he stomped and kicked; his thighs flexed in rhythm with the pounding drum; and the heat from the braziers felt warm against Geralt’s face.

The men finished with their own barn-shaking stomp, and another shout went up from the crowd. The male line took several large steps forward and then turned their backs to the women. Gripping their skirts in their hands, the women dashed forward. The men bent at the waist, and among the line of gray and brown wool, the seat of Jaskier’s baby-blue trousers was impossible to miss. Geralt lost sight of that curve as the women placed their hands on the men’s backs and vaulted over them to land on the other side. The girl who attempted to leap over Jaskier caught her boot against his hip, but he reached out as she tumbled sideways and caught her before she could hit the floor. Her face flamed red, but Jaskier laughed and turned their fumble into an elaborate spin. When he set her back on her feet, he kissed her cheek to the wild applause of the assembly.

After that, the crowd dissolved back into small clumps and pairs of neighbors exchanging gossip, and the dance partners that had particularly enjoyed the festivities snuck off to secluded corners. Jaskier sauntered toward Geralt, shaking hands along the way with nearly everyone he passed. He wasted no time in snatching the tankard from Geralt’s hands and flopping into a nearby chair. He tipped his head back, exposing his throat, and Geralt watched the muscles there bob with several long swallows. With a loud moan of satisfaction, Jaskier lowered the tankard and swiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. Geralt looked away, turning his face toward the open barn doors and the promise of a cooling breeze.

“Gods, I think my heart beat right out of my chest,” Jaskier declared. “Be a dear and go fetch it, would you?”

Geralt turned back to him. Sweat had slicked his hair against his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed pink. 

“Where did you learn that dance?” Geralt asked. 

His voice had gone hoarse, and he cleared his throat. Jaskier extended the tankard to him. Geralt took a sip, lips placed where Jaskier’s had just been.

“I did some of my university training in this general area,” Jaskier answered. He leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, one foot crossed over the opposite knee. “One of my professors was studying the variations in folk dances across the region. It’s quite fascinating really. You can track the spread of human settlements through the changes in the original style.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier grinned up at him. “I could teach you if you want.”

“I’m no dancer.”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier scoffed as he waved a hand. “Let’s not break out the false humility and pretend you’re anything other than a perfect specimen of strength and grace.”

Geralt’s face still felt warm, so he took another sip of ale. Groaning, Jaskier pushed to his feet and staggered toward him with exaggerated weariness.

“Sweet Melitele, I am going to feel this tomorrow.” He draped himself over Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt grunted as he took his weight. “You’ll let me ride Roach, won’t you?”

He batted his eyelashes at Geralt, and Geralt managed to turn his snort of laughter into another grunt. “I fought a pack of wraiths today,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, “but you are, as aforementioned, a perfect specimen, whereas I am but your mortal companion.” The wince that crossed his face as he stretched his back appeared genuine. “And, much to my surprise, I no longer possess the physique and stamina of a university student.”

“You seemed to have stamina enough.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet? Just for that I’m going to let you rub chamomile on me for a change.” Geralt had to look away again, and Jaskier laughed. “I’m kidding.”

Slipping out from Jaskier’s grasp, Geralt began to walk toward the doors. Jaskier fell in step beside him, swinging his arms and breathing a deep sigh of contentment as they crossed into the cool evening air. The bonfire was burning down, and villagers milled among the tables, clearing plates and packing away uneaten food. A few called greetings to them, which Jaskier returned, but he didn’t leave Geralt’s side to chat with anyone. Instead they carried on down the quiet main road toward the inn at the other end of the village.

As they neared the building, Geralt hummed under his breath. “I could.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him. “You could what?”

Geralt glanced up at the dark night sky. The stars burned in the black above, not just pinpricks but streaks of light, as if some celestial creature had smeared them with its fingertips.

“I could rub chamomile on you.”

“Oh.” After a moment’s silence, Jaskier let out a soft laugh, the quiet one that slipped out when it was just them exchanging words in the wilderness. “How can I turn down an offer like that?”

“You could say no.”

“I could.”

Jaskier paused before the door of the inn, and Geralt paused beside him. He felt the warmth of Jaskier’s hand reaching for him just before it wrapped around one of his. Lacing their fingers together, Jaskier brought their joined hands up to rest beneath his chin and gazed at Geralt with his blue, blue eyes.

“I’d rather say yes, if it’s all the same to you,” he murmured.

Geralt nodded and watched as Jaskier placed a kiss against his knuckles. Jaskier turned to enter the inn, and Geralt followed, still holding tight to the warm hand resting in his.


	43. Home (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr who asked for the boys hugging.

The sound of footsteps behind him prompts Geralt to straighten from where he’d leaned his hands on the balcony railing. Standing upright makes it easier for Jaskier to slip his arms around his waist and press his cold nose against the side of Geralt’s warm neck. Geralt hooks his thumbs over Jaskier’s palms, letting his hands shield Jaskier’s fingers from the worst of the biting cold.

“Where are your gloves?”

“Somewhere.” The movement of Jaskier’s lips tickled Geralt’s skin. “I just came out for a quick good morning before retreating to the library.”

“Hmm.”

In the courtyard below them, Vesemir finishes demonstrating a series of sword forms, and Eskel steps forward, practice weapon raised, to let Ciri try them against him. She may not always pay rapt attention to Vesemir’s history lectures, but when he instructs her in fighting techniques, she’s a model pupil. Her execution of the forms improves each day, and both Vesemir and Eskel nod in approval when she completes the movements.

Jaskier hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. “I can feel you smiling.”

Geralt doesn’t bother to deny it; he just holds Jaskier’s hands tighter against his chest.

“I’m going to write a new ballad all about how the White Wolf became a proud papa.”

“You can’t sing about Ciri.”

“What kind of fool do you take me for?”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier’s teeth nip at his earlobe. “Don’t answer that. And I didn’t say I would perform it. At least not out in the great wide world. Just here in Kaer Morhen with no one but the wolves to hear me.”

“We’re not much of an audience.”

“You suit me fine. For the winter at least. I do need to bask in _some_ adoration during the year.”

“I adore you.”

Jaskier’s arms tighten around him. “So you do,” he murmurs. “What do you say to a private performance after supper?”

Geralt hums his agreement, and the thought warms him enough to let Jaskier pull away. He watches over his shoulder as the bard heads back inside. They’ve become a strange pack, with a lion cub and a songbird finding refuge alongside the scarred and battered wolves. Stranger still are Geralt’s new roles as mate and father.

Geralt places his hands on the stone again. Within these walls, his life as a human ended. He had thought his transformation into a Witcher would be his last beginning, that his extended years would pass on and on without bringing him any kind of surprise or meaning.

He is grateful to have been wrong.


	44. Eau de Bard (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from user teddylacroix on Tumblr: Another fluffy one, if it pleases you! Jaskier asking Geralt about his senses, but not in an epic battle song kind of way, more the sweet little things way - like going to a flower festival, and Geralt describing different bouquets by how their scents integrate, or the smell of warm bread across a village that's about to burn if it's not taken away from the heat in the next two minutes.

From atop Roach, Geralt rolled his eyes as Jaskier offered the farmer they’d passed a florid bow. The bard came jogging toward him, a grin on his face, so Geralt turned Roach and continued on the way they’d been going.

“So!” Jaskier announced. “Good news! There is in fact a village a mile or so ahead, and it has not one inn but two. That lovely farmer said that the one on the eastern side of the village is superior, but as his sister is the proprietor, we should probably take that review with a grain of salt.”

Jaskier kept pace beside Roach with considerably more energy in his step and considerably fewer complaints on his lips now that they knew for certain a hot meal and a warm bed awaited them.

“My vote is whichever inn is _not_ serving rabbit with the evening meal. Not that I don’t appreciate your fine hunting prowess, my friend, but man cannot live on hasenpfeffer alone.”

Lifting his head, Geralt sniffed at the crisp autumn air. “Smells like pheasant.”

Jaskier stopped and stared at him before scrambling to catch up again. “Are you having me on, or are you serious?” At Geralt’s unimpressed look, he laughed. “All right. Any chance you can tell what the other inn is serving?”

Geralt sniffed the air again, teasing out the various scents that meshed together on the wind. “Salt pork maybe. And their bread is about to burn.” A sharper scent burned through the others. “They’re brewing something in a still.”

“Well, I’d say we aim for the pheasant, but given the state of our coin purse, that may be out of our reach. Salt pork isn’t so bad, especially if they serve whatever is coming out of that still. Can you smell anything else of note?”

“Yes,” Geralt said with an eyebrow raised at the bard. “You need a bath.”

Squawking in offense, Jaskier pointed an accusing finger at him. “As if you’re fresh as a blushing maid. One of us still smells of selkiemore guts, chum, and it isn’t me. I don’t need your superpowered Witcher nose to know that.”

Geralt turned forward again and smirked when he caught the bard surreptitiously sniffing his own shoulder from the corner of his eye.

“I should have asked whether the village has an apothecary,” Jaskier noted. “I’m down to the dregs of the bottle of cedarwood oil I picked up in Novigrad.”

Geralt grunted. “Good.”

“Good?” Jaskier asked. “You just told me I smell bad.”

“That oil’s most of the reason.”

“So I suppose I should just go swanning about smelling of only my own naturally manly aroma, is that it?”

Jaskier’s scent had never bothered Geralt, except when some creature’s appearance turned it acrid with fear. It had become as familiar as Roach’s, a note that mixed with woodsmoke and sword oil to create the combination his mind recognized as _camp_.

As _peace_.

Geralt rolled his shoulders. “Do as you will.”

Jaskier huffed. “Yes, that’s all well and good, but you could have told me you didn’t like the cedarwood. Your nostrils needn’t suffer over my vanity.” He grinned up at Geralt. “You could always come with me to pick a new scent.”

“If there was an apothecary in the town, I would have smelled it already.”

Jaskier’s grin twisted into a rueful grimace. “Bollocks.” He heaved a theatrical sigh. “So be it then. Eau de bard until we reach a more civilized part of the Continent. Good thing it’s not summer. You’d be regretting your choice after the first humid day.”

“Hmm.”

“And _you_ still smell of onion, by the way. How is that? We haven’t had any in weeks.”

“It’s part of my mutations.”

Wide blue eyes stared up at him. “What, really?”

Geralt snorted and nudged Roach into a trot.

“Oh, very funny!” Jaskier called after him. “Just for that I’m dumping the rest of the cedarwood oil in your boots!”

Reaching into the saddlebag that held Jaskier’s pack, Geralt felt around until his fingers closed on the small glass vial. Without looking back, he held it up so it caught the late-afternoon sun, and then he chucked it into the surrounding brush.

“Oi! You owe me coin for that!”

“Worth it,” Geralt murmured to Roach as he leaned over her neck and pushed her to a gallop.

At least now if they had to share a bed, it would only smell of them.


	45. Siren Song (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long while ago, a lovely anon on Tumblr sent in a request for established geraskier with amnesiac Geralt and their happy reunion. I tinkered with something long and angsty, but frankly it was kind of dull and uninspired and didn’t feel like it met the heart of the prompt. I like this much better.

Someone was sitting in Geralt’s camp. It happened sometimes when he was out on a hunt; he’d come back to find a poor beggar or a bandit pawing at his supplies. The man sitting beside his campfire was clearly neither. No beggar wore a fine doublet, and no bandit carried a lute instead of a weapon. Beyond the man’s unusual appearance, Roach still contentedly cropped the grass where he’d tethered her before the fight, as if the stranger weren’t there at all.

Despite the fact that his medallion was quiet, Geralt suspected some form of magic at work. But he was dripping, cold, and tired after his fight with the siren, and he had zero patience for dealing with whatever this bullshit was. So instead of circling around and coming at the stranger from behind, he stepped straight into the clearing, sword raised.

The man looked up with a smile that crinkled the edges of his bright-blue eyes. When those eyes dropped to Geralt’s sword, instead of looking frightened, he just sighed and wrinkled his nose.

“Wasn’t drowners, was it?”

Geralt’s conscious mind demanded an explanation, but instead of charging at the man and setting his blade to his throat, he just shook his head. The man smiled again, and Geralt’s sword dropped an inch.

“I know you don’t remember right now,” the man said in a soothing voice, “but we actually worked out a solution for this. Siren song makes you forget about me, but we discovered that a song from me makes you remember.” His fingers danced across the strings of the lute, releasing a gentle wave of melody. “May I sing for you?”

It was clearly a trick, a spell of some kind. Geralt’s instincts should have been screaming at him to prepare to fight. Instead he felt at ease, as comfortable in the stranger’s presence as Roach seemed to be. When he nodded, the man’s smile stretched to a toothy grin that made Geralt’s chest feel warm.

“Excellent,” the man said, continuing to strum absently at his lute. “Let’s see...”

_Come back to me, my lovely man.  
Come back to me, fast as you can.  
They’ve stolen me out from your mind  
But seek in your heart and you will find  
your sweet Jaskier, your stalwart rock,  
the man who loves to suck your-”_

Geralt cut him off with a snort. “Enough, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smirked at him. “But I was just getting to the good part.”

Shaking his head, Geralt sheathed his sword and began stripping out of his armor. “Save the good part for when I’m not soaking wet.”

“Oh, very well.” 

Jaskier set aside his lute and came over to help him, but before he could start unlatching the buckles, Geralt pressed one hand to his jaw and pulled him in for a long kiss. When they pulled apart, he leaned his forehead against his lover’s.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Always, love.”


	46. First Step Is a Fall (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user tinymacaroni: the first time jaskier sees geralt being Soft with kids

Within a few hours of making her acquaintance, Jaskier concluded that Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon was a delight. She was all noble courtesy when Geralt introduced them, but once they had set out into the wilderness, she quickly became one of his favorite audiences. She sang along to the songs she knew in a lovely, clear soprano; she had a sly sense of humor; and she clearly had understood much more of the subtle court intrigues of Cintra than he would have guessed a girl her age would. As they chattered away through the morning and afternoon, Jaskier expected Geralt to tire of the noise and tell them in no uncertain terms to give him some damn peace, but he didn’t. In fact, every time Ciri laughed, a small smile crossed his lips, like a reflex he couldn’t suppress, and he would gaze at Jaskier with an expression full of such fondness and gratitude that for a moment Jaskier would forget to breathe.

But as the sun fell, Ciri’s spirits seemed to fall with it. She began to fidget with Roach’s reins. She stopped joining in on Jaskier’s songs, and even his best jokes only got a half-hearted chuckle in response. Geralt lost his smile as well, and when Jaskier shot him a worried look, he only shook his head, looking grim and resigned. By the time they left the road to make camp, Ciri sat hunched in the saddle, her bright eyes darting at every rustle in the undergrowth.

They found a good spot to spend the night, flat and carpeted with thick grass and near a burbling stream. Geralt offered Ciri a hand to dismount, but even with her feet on the ground, she stayed glued to his side, and Geralt, who had bristled whenever anyone got within arm’s reach of him for as long as Jaskier had known him, didn’t say a word. He removed Roach’s tack and handed Ciri a curry comb, and they brushed Roach together. All the while, Geralt kept up a steady murmur of soothing words that they could pretend were for Roach. When they were finished and Geralt steered Ciri with a gentle hand on her back to where Jaskier was stacking sticks for a fire, she looked close to panic.

Geralt crouched down until they were eye to eye and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to hunt us some supper, but Jaskier is here,” he told her. “And Roach will know if there’s trouble long before it reaches us.”

Ciri nodded, despite the way her breath came fast. “And you’ll be back?” The uncertainty in her voice made Jaskier’s heart ache.

“I’ll be back,” he assured her. His lips quirked in a slight smirk. “Probably before Jaskier manages to light the fire.”

“Oh, fu-” Jaskier trailed off mid-word with a glance at the princess. “Fie. Fie on you!”

Geralt snorted, and even Ciri giggled a little at his fumbling. “You can say ‘fuck,’” she told him.

Jaskier made a show of gaping and gasping and gesturing wildly from Geralt to Ciri and back, which made her laugh again. Geralt took the opportunity to stand straight and head into the forest, though not before giving Ciri’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. She watched him go until the trees completely hid him from view, and then she crouched on the ground, tucked into her cloak, rocking slightly and chewing at her fingernails.

“Willing to give me a hand?” Jaskier asked her. “If I don’t have this fire going before he gets back, I really will not hear the end of it.”

Ciri’s smile was small but genuine, and she crawled closer to help create a pyramid of kindling. “I know it’s stupid,” she said after a moment. 

“What is?”

“That I get scared when I’m not with Geralt or Yennefer.” Her shaking hand knocked several sticks loose from the pile, and she sat back again, drawing her cloak close around her.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Jaskier said. “I feel safer when Geralt is around too.” He huffed a laugh. “Not so much Yennefer.”

“She’s only scary to people who deserve it.”

“Well, she has on occasion decided that I deserved it.” He smiled at her. “But if she wants to keep someone safe, I have no doubt that nothing in this world or the next would stop her.”

He finished arranging the kindling and pulled the flint and steel from his bag. After a few failed starts, a spark caught. He bent down to blow it into life; when it flared and spread to the larger logs, he nodded in satisfaction. As he leaned back, he casually shifted his seat and put himself just a bit closer to Ciri.

“And while I’m no Witcher or sorceress,” he said, “I’ll do everything I can to protect you. I’m indirectly responsible for the bond you and Geralt share, after all.”

Ciri tilted her head. “How so?”

“You don’t know the story?” 

“Only bits and pieces.”

Jaskier grinned. “Well, prepare yourself, princess, for I shall regale you with the tale in its entirety, complete with mystery, magic, and romance. It all began when I received an invitation to perform for your illustrious grandmother...”

He spared no detail as he spun the story, even going so far as singing snatches from his performance that night, those that were appropriate for teenage girls anyway. In his desire to help Cirilla escape her fear, Jaskier let himself get as wrapped up in the story as she was, which he belatedly realized was probably less than wise when loud footsteps interrupted his dramatic reenactment of Geralt saving Duny from certain death. They both jolted, and some instinct Jaskier hadn’t known he possessed prompted him to move his body between Cirilla and the sound. A moment later, he remembered himself and fell back on his old trick of looking to Roach for guidance. Her ears pricked forward but stayed relaxed, and she resumed cropping the grass on the edge of the clearing. When he sat back down and lald what he hoped was a comforting hand on Cirllia’s upper back, she whipped her head toward him, hair flying, eyes wide.

“Roach is calm, which means it’s Geralt.” He offered her a smile. “He sometimes overdoes the noise for the sake of human ears. Which I admit I appreciate because I can get over my prey-like instinct to flee before he catches me at it.”

Although Cirilla’s spine was still stiff beneath his hand, she nodded. “I know,” she huffed, and then her tension wilted with a grimace. “Gods, I thought I got over it when we traveled before. I got too used to sleeping in a warded cottage.”

“These things are rarely rational,” Jaskier told her, and she sighed, her brow still creased in frustration.

Despite her irritation, the moment Geralt stepped into the clearing, she was on her feet and dashing toward him. One of his arms caught her around the waist with what looked like practiced ease even as his other hand held a pair of skinned rabbits away from her fine cloak. She buried her face in his chest, and Geralt ducked his head to place a kiss on the crown of hers.

The casualness of the gesture, how natural it seemed, played havoc with Jaskier’s heart. He’d understood, of course, that the man he loved was a father in all the ways that mattered, but seeing it firsthand was something else. It brought home the reality that loving Geralt now meant loving Cirilla. It meant being a part of her life; it meant _being trusted_ to be a part of her life.

As Jaskier watched them together, as Geralt raised his golden gaze and shot him a shy, helpless, and completely adorable smile, he knew he would devote the rest of his life to proving himself worthy of that trust.


	47. The Story Is This (???)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from tumbler user steeb-stn: Geralt’s love language is secretly touch and Jaskier takes full advantage of this fact  
> &  
> a prompt from Tumblr user tiredmouse: Geralt actually loves to kiss, but as his company is mostly paid-for and everyone expects a witcher to favor "hard and fast" style anyway, he doesn't really get to do that a lot. Until Jaskier.

This is the beginning.

A quiet moment, no fanfare, no blazing horns or rousing chorus. A meeting of eyes, warm and soft in firelight. A touch of hands, those that bring forth melody, those that bring forth death.

Unlike the hundreds, possibly thousands that have come before, this touch is a question. This touch is an offer.

_What do you want? If it is in my power to give, you will have it._

A touch of lips is the answer.

_Just you._

This is the middle.

Like the beat of his heart, Geralt’s passion is a slow thing. If Jaskier had expected something wild, something raging and feral, he would have been surprised. But he had expected nothing of the sort because he knows his Witcher. He knows his love.

Geralt’s passion is the drawn-out drag of fingertips across skin, long, lingering caresses that go on and on until Jaskier feels half-drugged, his body trembling. Geralt’s passion is minutes that feel like hours, or maybe hours that feel like minutes, shared breaths and the taste of him so thoroughly licked into Jaskier’s mouth, so satisfying and filling, that he is sure he could live forever without food or drink ever passing his lips again. Geralt’s passion is pleasure pulled from so deep inside him that his bones turn as hollow as a bird’s and he flies.

Geralt’s passion sends him soaring to the heavens, but Geralt’s love tugs him gently back to earth again.

This is the end.

A sharp wind grinds dirt and dust into exposed flesh, and sharp words grind agony into an exposed heart. A mountaintop that sinks to the lowest valley, the deepest canyon, the endless, gaping maw of heartbreak.

Jaskier’s climb down does nothing to change his altitude. He was already at the bottom.

This is the beginning.

A song ends, not with a flourish but with a fading. A meeting of eyes, uncertain and regretful across a tavern crowd. A touch of hands, those that bring forth melody, those that bring forth death.

Unlike the hundreds, possibly thousands that will come after, this touch is a question. This touch is an offer.

_What do you need? If it is in my power to give, you will never be without it again._

A touch of lips is the answer.

_Just you._


	48. Formal Appearance (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user captnsunshine: some cuteness post a somewhat formal performance by Jaskier  
> &  
> For a prompt from Tumblr user lynsolo: Geralt is confused after noticing that the first time Jaskier wears his fancy shoes (with a heel), he's actually taller than Geralt

After concluding his musical performance at any banquet, Jaskier would immediately launch into another type of show, one of shared smiles and raucous laughter and exchanged kisses. He would swan and schmooze his way across the hall, basking in the adoration of the masses. Geralt had become resigned to these extended sort-of-encores and dealt with them by getting himself another glass of wine or pint of ale, sometimes two. He’d made it clear to Jaskier that if he reached the bottom of his second drink, he was within his rights to march over to the bard and throw him over his shoulder. Jaskier usually materialized at his side the moment he finished the last swallow. If the gathering was less formal, he’d sometimes remain where he was, saucy smirk in place, and allow Geralt to carry through on his threat.

After the very formal betrothal banquet of Lord So-and So and Lady Whoever, Geralt had barely touched his first drink when Jaskier took his arm. Surprised, Geralt let Jaskier steer him out of the main hall, and while the bard kept up a steady stream of grins and waves to passers-by, he didn’t deviate from his course to the exit. As soon as they were clear of the doors and out of sight down the corridor to the guest chambers, Jaskier’s grin became a grimace. Away from the scents of the crowd and the feast, Geralt could smell blood--Jaskier’s blood. He immediately looped an arm around Jaskier’s waist as the bard leaned heavily against him. 

“What the fuck happened?” he demanded.

“The lady of the house insisted I wear these fucking monstrosities, that’s what.” Jaskier interrupted his limp to lift one of the high-heeled boots tightly laced up to his knee. “Apparently they are all the rage this season, and she just couldn’t _bear_ it if her entertainment didn’t meet her exacting fashion standards.” He groaned as they continued their painstaking pace down the hall. “I thought I was immune to blisters after decades of travel, but alas, I have paid a heavy price for my hubris.”

Geralt snorted. “If it’s that bad, I’ll carry you.”

“Tempting, but no. If you lend me a shoulder, we can at least pretend I’m only mildly inebriated if someone happens by.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“Because my employer cares, and a happy employer means more coin. I’ll already probably lose a share for leaving so early. Appearances, my dear Geralt, are everything.” His smile returned as he tucked himself closer to Geralt’s shoulder. “Plus I’m enjoying these last few moments of being taller than you are.”

After a quick assessment, Geralt shook his head. “You’re not.”

“I am too! I’m towering over you right now!”

“You call half an inch towering?”

“Aha! So you agree I’m taller!”

“I agree those shoes are shitty.”

“Because I’m taller.”

“Because you’re bleeding, Jaskier.”

“Bleeding and taller.”

Geralt made a movement like he would step away without actually loosening his grip. “I’ll leave you here.”

With a dramatic gasp of outrage, Jaskier clung to him. “You wouldn’t. You would never treat the man you love so callously.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, because you are secretly a lovely, darling man.” Jaskier smacked a very loud kiss against his cheek. Then his lips tripped along Geralt’s jawline to end at his ear. “A lovely, darling, _short_ man,” he whispered.

The squawk he let out when Geralt knocked him off his feet and swept him into his arms was satisfyingly loud.

“Appearances, Geralt! What about appearances?”

“Fuck ’em.”


	49. Geralt's Song (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Maybe Geralt helping contribute some words to one of Jaskier's in progress songs? Giving him a rhyme or help with wording? (from Tumblr user supjello)  
> &  
> Prompt: Jaskier trying to teach Geralt some lute/a song (from Tumblr user perpetually-dehydrated)

As Geralt sat on the bed sharpening his steel sword, a collection of wadded-up papers accumulated at his feet. A muttered curse or a heavy sigh accompanied each one’s flight to the floor until Jaskier finally banged his head against the table where he’d been trying to compose a new song.

“That’s it,” he declared into the wood. “It’s over. I have nothing more to contribute to this world. You may as well run me through where I sit.”

“I’ll be tempted if you keep making such a fuss.”

Jaskier raised his head to glare over his shoulder. “Do you mind? I am mourning the loss of my creative genius over here.”

“Genius is debatable.” Before Jaskier could finish his offended scoffing, he added, “And you do this at least once a month.”

“This time is different.”

“You say that every time too.”

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier whined as he rose from his chair. Anticipating where that action would lead, Geralt quickly sheathed his sword and set it aside just moments before he ended up with a lapful of bard.

“You have to help me,” Jaskier insisted. “It’s only fair. I helped you kill that kikimore last week.”

Geralt adjusted Jaskier’s position so he was no longer crushing one of his thighs. “You shouted, ‘Come and get me, you creepy-eyed bugger.’”

“Thus distracting the beast and allowing you to strike the killing blow.”

With a heavy sigh of his own, Geralt let his head hang against Jaskier’s shoulder. “And what is it you think I can do to help you?”

“Well,” Jaskier began as he jumped up from Geralt’s lap, “one of my professors once said that if you can’t write a good song, you should write a bad one, the worst one you can imagine.” He snatched up his lute, turned with a flourish, and held it outstretched to Geralt. “Since you know nothing about music, I’m sure any song you help me write will be completely abysmal.”

“High praise,” Geralt drawled dryly, but when he took the lute, he cradled it in gentle hands.

With a giddy grin at the sight, Jaskier climbed up onto the bed behind him. He flattened himself against Geralt’s back, likely closer than he needed to, but Geralt wasn’t one to complain. After pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw, he hooked his chin over Geralt’s shoulder and adjusted his hands on the lute.

Geralt grunted at the unnatural position. “My fingers can’t stretch that far.”

“Of course they can,” Jaskier replied. “Now press the strings down with that hand and strum with the other.”

Geralt let his fingernails brush the strings in what he thought was a good imitation of Jaskier, but the resulting sound was anything but musical.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier said. “That was horrific. Well done.”

He stole another kiss before climbing out of the bed. “Now you keep making that hideous sound while we construct some equally horrendous lyrics.” Tapping one finger to his lips, he began to pace the small room.

“A bawdy limerick seems like the right form for this. Maybe something with _ung_ words. I always thought that was an ugly sound. _Ung_. Lung. Dung.” 

When he reached the far side of the room, he turned with a smirk and a wink that made Geralt roll his eyes as he continued to coax pained groans from the lute.

“There once was a Witcher well-hung,” Jaskier sing-songed, “who did marvelous things with his tongue.”

Geralt huffed as he felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “Jaskier…” he growled.

Jaskier waved the warning away. “It’s just a silly exercise, Geralt. You know I won’t sing songs about our personal life in public unless you give me permission.”

“Which I never will,” Geralt reminded him.

“We’ll see,” Jaskier replied with another wink. “Now come on.” His eyebrows gave a suggestive wiggle. “Why don’t you finish it off?”

Geralt suspected he was just as poor a poet as a lutist, but the playful gleam in Jaskier’s eye sparked warmth in his chest and heat somewhere lower. After shifting his fingers to a more comfortable position, he plucked an even worse sound on the lute and cleared his throat.

“His bard lost his life / to said Witcher’s knife, / so this song will never be sung.”

He couldn’t help but smile as Jaskier bent nearly double with laughter. He was still clutching his side and wiping his eyes when he reclaimed his lute and set it back in its case before straddling Geralt’s thighs. With cupped hands, he turned Geralt’s face from side to side so he could pepper it with light kisses.

“That was by far the most entertaining threat on my life I’ve ever heard,” he said against Geralt’s lips.

“Did that help your creative process?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said as he pushed Geralt down onto the mattress. “And right now I don’t much care.”

Geralt wasn’t one to complain about that either.


	50. Book of Monsters (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: geraskier and small acts of kindness/attention maybe? like 'I noticed you like this little thing, so I did/got you this little thing' :) (from Tumblr user lemonycacti)  
> &  
> Prompt: Jaskier being Incredibly Competent at something mundane but useful (foraging or cooking or mending or something) and geralt is just like. oh no i love him (from Tumblr user tinymacaroni)

Bringing the book along from Kaer Morhen had been a whim, an afterthought; he had tossed it into his bag as he was packing up. It certainly didn’t warrant the effusive gratitude he received from Jaskier their first night reunited around a campfire.

“It’s just a book,” he muttered.

“A book lent by a friend is more than that,” Jaskier insisted, already turning the thin pages with the reverent hands of a scholar. “It’s shared knowledge and ideas. I happen to think those things are important in this world.”

When he flipped back to the inside front cover, his breath caught for a moment and a strange expression crossed his face. His lips curled up in a fond smile, but his brow furrowed as though he’d seen something that distressed him.

Whatever it was, he didn’t address it when he met Geralt’s gaze again. He only said, “I’ll take good care of it,” and then settled back on his bedroll to start reading.

Later, after he’d fallen asleep with the book open on his chest, Geralt picked it up with careful fingers and looked for what had caused that odd look. He cringed when he saw the childish writing.

_Geralt. School of the Wolf. Age 10._

Fuck, he’d forgotten that was in there.

\---

The next contract took them to a village troubled by ghouls. They stopped halfway down the path to the cemetery so Geralt could double-check his preparations and warn Jaskier to stay where he was. When he turned to tell him though, Jaskier was preoccupied with pulling a wad of cotton from his belt pouch. He tore off a small piece, rolled it up, and pushed it into his right ear with a grimace. He noticed Geralt watching and held out the cotton.

“Did you need some?” he asked. At Geralt’s raised eyebrow, he lifted his chin. “Well, the book said alghouls can stun with a shriek. And since living travelers have gone missing around here, I figure there’s probably at least one alghoul with this pack, right?”

Geralt’s other eyebrow jumped up to join its fellow. His surprise kept him silent long enough for Jaskier’s expression to turn sheepish, but when he reached up to remove the cotton from his ear, Geralt stopped him.

“I use wax,” he said.

“Oh!” Jaskier beamed at him, his grin a mixture of relief and the unrestrained delight he showed whenever Geralt offered some tidbit about his methods. “That’s a good tip. I’ll make a note of that. Thanks, Geralt.”

Geralt’s surprise continued when Jaskier jogged away to sit on a partially ruined wall at what even Geralt could admit was a safe distance. The sight simultaneously gratified and annoyed him--gratified because the book seemed to have finally taught Jaskier a modicum of self-preservation and annoyed because he’d been giving the bard the same warnings verbally for years. Leave it to an Oxenfurt man to take the word of a century-old book over that of an experienced Witcher.

Later that night, Jaskier was true to his word. After a round of performing, he sat at their table drinking ale and making notes about the day’s hunt in his composition book. Even though many of his songs were about fighting monsters, Geralt still felt uneasy seeing him scribble the mundane practicalities alongside the usually lyrical flights of fancy. He was far from a patron of the arts, but Jaskier’s words and music somehow managed to turn the grim reality of his life into something better, something pure. Something a ten-year-old boy still dreaming of becoming a hero would be proud to be a part of.

The village held a market the next day. They separated to resupply their respective needs, but when Geralt came across a woman selling hand-sewn books of blank papers, he bought one. At that night’s campfire, Geralt casually presented it to Jaskier, who once again offered unnecessarily verbose thanks.

“It’s just a book,” Geralt said again.

Jaskier only smiled.

\---

Geralt’s hopes that Jaskier had finally learned that monsters were, in fact, dangerous were soon dashed. Whereas before the book, he had occasionally been able to persuade Jaskier to stay behind (if only to afford himself some peace and quiet), now Jaskier would roll his eyes and fall into step beside him.

“Oh, please. You and I both know there’s no wyvern in those ruins. I suppose it could be a griffin, but it’s more likely a harpy or two that got separated from their nest. I’ll stay low to the ground, and I’ll be fine.”

The times he would stay behind were almost worse. He’d watch Geralt don his armor with a worried expression, his hands twisting Geralt’s gloves in their grip. He’d refuse to hand them over until Geralt promised at least three times to be careful. When those fights inevitably turned ugly, Geralt found himself not always pressing an opening if it would cost him a nasty wound. He still won in the end--and arguably in better condition than had been his habit--but it still troubled him that he was altering his well-worn patterns.

But in the privacy of his own mind, he could admit it was nice to go back to the inn and find that Jaskier had assembled all of the medical supplies and potions he was likely to need. He’d let Geralt undress in silence and help him treat his wounds, and when Geralt finally sank into the blissful heat of a prepared bath, Jaskier’s questions about the fight would contain a level of insight and precision that secretly impressed him. He wondered if Jaskier had expanded his studies of monster lore beyond the basic and admittedly outdated primer.

The night after he cleared a particularly large kikimore nest, he dozed in bed and watched as Jaskier took a much thicker and more advanced bestiary from his pack. He sat by the fireplace with the book, the notebook Geralt had bought him, and his quill and little ink pot. He sharpened the quill with his belt knife and then sighed as he dripped a tiny bit of water from a skin into the ink pot. He shook it and then sighed again as he held it up to the light.

Even from the bed, Geralt could see its noticeably lighter-than-black color, and he frowned. When Jaskier caught the expression, he laughed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t believe everything I read. I’ll still pepper you with questions to maintain the accuracy you so stringently insist upon.”

Accurate details hadn’t been on Geralt’s mind, but Jaskier’s words suddenly reminded him of their first meeting. How Jaskier had taken his admonition about nonexistent monsters so much to heart that he had followed him out of the tavern and onto the Path. How he asked Geralt question after question to refine his lyrics and how many of them were about the details of the monsters and not just a result of his constant out-loud stream of consciousness. How he displayed genuine curiosity about Witchers in general and Geralt in particular. 

Had anyone else ever taken as keen an interest in Geralt’s life? Even his own mother had left him by the side of the road.

Jaskier didn’t seem to have expected an answer; he’d already gone back to his book. Geralt rolled over to face the wall. The scratch of the quill lulled him into sleep.

\---

He felt recovered enough the next day to leave the town and continue onto the next. They spent the day roaming through a large oak forest, Jaskier chattering away and Geralt looking out for the growths left behind on the trees by wasp larvae. As they sat by the fire that night, he set the collection of galls on the ground as his feet and began to grind them with his mortar and pestle. He huffed as Jaskier immediately came to sit on the log beside him, notebook and quill in hand.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve seen you use those. Which potion are they for?”

Geralt kept his eyes on his work and ignored the way the heat from the fire felt suddenly warmer on his cheeks. “They’re not.”

After a long moment, Jaskier snorted. “Well?” he prompted.

“Well what?”

“What are they for then?”

“They’re…” Sighing, Geralt rubbed his knuckles across his forehead. “It’s an ingredient for making ink,” he mumbled.

Jaskier grinned. “Planning to write a letter?”

“It’s for you.”

Even without looking, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s surprise in his brief silence.

“I… thank you, Geralt. I appreciate that. Truly.” He nudged Geralt’s shoulder with his own. “Maybe we should collaborate on a book of our own. You provide the monster facts, and I’ll provide the captivating and informative prose. What do you say?”

Geralt looked over at him then, at his bright smile, at the way the firelight danced across his skin and illuminated lighter strands among his dark hair. He could have been at any court, wined and dined and adored. He could have been back at Oxenfurt, performing for knowledgeable and appreciative audiences and teaching star-struck students. He could have found a place anywhere on the Continent and been surrounded by people who laughed and joked with him, who met his stories and questions with more than stony silence. People who were capable of loving him the way he deserved to be loved.

Instead Jaskier sat beside Geralt, and for the thousandth time since they’d met, his smile faded as Geralt’s inability to find the right words dragged on. He licked his lips as he turned back to the fire; his fingers found a loose bit of bark, and he worked it free and tossed it into the flames.

“It’s a silly idea, I know.”

Geralt forced himself to clear his throat. “It’s not.”

Blue eyes returned to him, full of a million different emotions that Geralt barely knew how to recognize in himself let alone in someone else. Kaer Morhen didn’t have books about that. Could that even be taught? Could it be learned? Did he even want to learn it?

Did he want to learn it from Jaskier?

The boy who had written his name in a book decades ago supplied him with the answer.

“Maybe someday,” he murmured.

Jaskier’s smile came back, soft and gentle and patient, everything Geralt didn’t yet know how to accept.

“Maybe someday,” he agreed.


	51. The Boy in Blaviken (Different meeting AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from Tumblr user weiwei-le: a half au in which Geralt meets Julian, a ten-year-old orphan who has a music talent and was too brave and stubborn for his own good

As Geralt entered the town, he met Marilka. She was smart, unafraid, and refreshingly open-minded. He let her jabber away about her life, her dreams, her unique way of looking at the world as she led him to the mage’s tower. They’d almost reached it when a skinny boy raced toward them. Marilka stopped and crossed her arms as the boy bent over panting, hands on his knees.

“What?” she demanded.

The boy straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Phew.” He threw a curious glance at Geralt before turning back to Marilka. “Mother says you have to go home to help with supper.”

Marilka scowled. “Mother can go hang.”

With a loud gasp, the boy slapped his hand to his chest in exaggerated shock. “Marilka! How can you say such things?”

“What do you care?” Marilka taunted. “She’s not your real mother anyway.”

The boy’s blue eyes went wide, as if she’d struck him. They filled with tears as his lower lips trembled.

To Geralt’s surprise, Marilka laughed. “Save it for your marks, you little con man.”

In a flash, the tears were gone, replaced by a cocky smirk; the boy even winked at Geralt. “Mother really did say you have to go home. Repeatedly. Father will come next.”

Marilka rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She waved at Geralt. “Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.” The boy offered an overly flourished bow as her gesture turned to him. “Julian of Nowhere, the Arseface.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a viscount in Lettenhove.”

“And I’m the queen of Cintra.”

“There’s no throne big enough for your fat arse.”

Geralt cleared his throat. “I’d like to see the mage before the sun sets.”

“Show him, Julian,” Marilka said as she started to walk away. She turned around while still walking and pointed an accusing finger at him. “And don’t steal from him, or he’ll eat your face.”

The boy and Geralt exchanged a look.

“How about you don’t steal anything and I won’t eat any part of you?” Geralt asked. “Deal?”

Julian grinned. Some of his teeth were larger than others in the way of children who still had a few to lose. “Deal.”

They continued on down the road, Julian swinging his arms as he walked.

“So you’re a Witcher? And you killed a monster? And you’re going to sell it to the mage?” Before Geralt could answer, Julian barreled on. “I bet Marilka wanted to see it. She likes creepy things. Dead things too. Do you know how hard it is to frighten your sister when she likes bugs and snakes and frogs even more than you do?”

Geralt didn’t respond, assuming his part in the conversation was largely unnecessary, until a small finger poked into his elbow.

“Well, do you?” Julian insisted.

Geralt fought a smile. “I don’t have a sister.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I have brothers though.”

“Then you’re extra lucky,” Julian declared with a gusty sigh. “I’ll bet you didn’t have to feed the chickens _and_ milk the goat _and_ weed the garden _and_ water the vegetables all by yourself.”

“That is true.”

As they neared the large building at the end of the road, Julian stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. “Well, there it is,” he said with a wave. “And I didn’t steal anything, I promise.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Somehow that just makes me more suspicious”

Julian laughed. “I don’t steal anymore, and even when I did, I only stole from rich people. You don’t look rich.” He wrinkled his nose. “You don’t smell rich either. You smell like onions.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you staying in town? You should go down to the tavern and tell some of your witchering stories. I’ll bet people would pay coin to hear about that.”

Geralt thought that was highly unlikely, but he only said, “We’ll see.”

“When adults say that, it means no.” Julian shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you decide to tell stories for free, you have to find me first. I want to hear them.”

“I will,” Geralt said with a nod. “Head home for supper now.”

The boy nodded back and then hurried on the way they had come, darting between townspeople and scattering birds as he went.

—

As Geralt left the town, he found Julian. He hadn’t expected to see the boy again, but he sat on the bridge leading to the main road, thin legs dangling over the river. A sack was on the stone beside him, and Geralt sighed as he continued his limp forward. He hoped the sack wasn’t filled with rocks. If the boy slipped into the river while holding it, Geralt would have to fish him out again, and then he’d spend the night not only bloody and bruised but cold and wet.

When he drew near, Julian scrambled to his feet, his hands twisting in his shirt.

“That woman,” he said without preamble and without any hint of the smile he’d worn the day before. “She would have killed Marilka, wouldn’t she?”

This was probably the kind of thing a human would lie to a child about, but Geralt wasn’t human, and he had no patience left for their customs today. “Yes.”

Julian’s face scrunched in confusion. “But why? Marilka didn’t do anything to her!”

“She wanted revenge on the mage. She thought if she started killing people in the town, he would come down to face her.”

“Would he have?”

“I don’t think so.”

The boy swallowed hard. “And she would have kept killing people?”

“Yes.”

Julian’s trembling lip didn’t seem to be feigned this time, but he wiped at his eyes and picked up the sack.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it at Geralt. “It’s food. I nicked it from the kitchen.”

Geralt started to shake his head. “I can’t…”

“It’s nothing anyone will miss. A couple of bruised apples, the burnt end of the bread.” He shoved it at Geralt until he had no choice but to take it or let it fall. Julian’s hand darted into his pocket, and he balanced a carved wooden flute on top of the bundle. “Take this too.”

“Julian…”

“You’ll be doing me a favor,” the boy said as he tried for a smile. “I asked for a _lute_ , not a _flute_.” His blue eyes held Geralt’s gaze. “Everyone should have music.”

Before Geralt could think of a reply, Roach’s ears pricked backward and she shifted uneasily. He quickly shoved the sack of food into the saddle bag.

“You should run home,” he told the boy. “Don’t tell anyone you spoke to me.”

“I won’t. I’ll tell them I hit you with my slingshot. Bam!” He mimed something hitting him in the face. “Right in the nose. It was a beautiful shot.”

Somehow, despite the pain of his wounds and the aching in his chest, Geralt felt the edges of his lips turn upward. “Take care of yourself, Julian.”

“I’m going to travel the world someday,” the boy announced. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Maybe we will.”

Julian nodded once before darting off back toward the village. Geralt didn’t yet trust himself to stay mounted; he’d try once he’d tended his injuries. Instead he continued his slow limp toward the main road, Roach’s reins in one hand. In the other, he held tightly to the wooden flute, a thin dam to hold back despair’s strong current.


	52. Alone Together (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I forgot to post this one here?
> 
> Prompt: whenever they camp out in the wild, Geralt gets cuddly after dinner (from Tumblr user no-starless-sky)

The last light of day was fading as they finished their supper. Jaskier pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his hands and mouth, and stood with the intention of collecting their bedrolls from where they’d left Roach’s tack. A tug on the other end of the linen square sent him tumbling into Geralt’s lap instead. Strong arms circled his waist, and Geralt nosed along the side of his neck with the insistence of a bloodhound.

“And to what do I owe this manhandling?” Jaskier asked with a grin. 

Geralt mumbled his answer into his skin. “I missed you.”

Jaskier laughed. “We’ve been together this whole time.”

“It’s not the same in a city.” Fingers traced the pattern of his doublet, wending their way to the open front and slipping beneath. “Too many smells. Too many heartbeats.”

Cuddling closer, Jaskier let his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder. “Is this better?”

“Your clothes still smell like the city.”

“That is a pity. If only there was something we could do about that …”

The words had barely left his mouth before his doublet was on the ground. He grinned and leaned forward to let Geralt strip him of his shirt as well and then quickly huddled back as his skin prickled in the cooling night air.

“Better now?”

Geralt hummed in consideration. “Almost.”

“Shall I paint my skin with ash from the fire? Rub against a tree? Roll in the grass?”

“Yes.”

“I was kidding about the first two. I’ll consider the third on one condition.”

He wiggled and squirmed and smacked the restraining arms until Geralt let him stand with a disgruntled huff.

“What condition is that?”

He smiled and ran his hands through starlit silver hair until Geralt closed his eyes in contentment. Then he bent down to press a kiss to his upturned lips.

“You have to roll with me.”


	53. Teacher's Assistants (Getting together; outsider POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: maybe geralt is introduced to his family / friends and it’s a little awkward but wholesome? (from Tumblr user garbagefrijol)  
> &  
> Prompt: something sweet where Geralt has been acting weird lately and it takes Jaskier a while to realise that Geralt is courting him, in his own Geralt way (from Tumblr user beginte)

Voices and smells filled Rowan’s ears and nose when he pushed through the tavern door, not surprising given that it was competition weekend. From behind him, Lucien touched his shoulder and pointed toward the booth in the far corner, and Rowan smiled when he saw Professor Pankratz waving them down with a grin. From behind Lucien, he heard Meri give a little gasp, and then she punched his shoulder with considerably more force than Lucien’s touch. Rowan didn’t see what had her so excited until they’d cleared a few more tables.

Pankratz wasn’t alone. Rowan groaned a little to himself, not because he had anything against the Witcher but because Meri had been obsessed with whether he and the professor were a couple for a decade. As they neared the table and the professor rose to greet them, Lucien walked ahead of the protective bracket they maintained around him in crowded spaces, and Rowan had a chance to murmur at Meri.

“Don’t.”

She blinked at him with wide brown eyes, all innocence. “Don’t what?”

“Meri…”

But before he could say more, she bounded away to accept a warm hug from the professor. He laughed as he folded his arms around her and then stepped past to offer Rowan his hand.

“Rowan, I’m so pleased you could make it.”

“Me too, Professor,” he replied, clasping the older man’s hand in his own.

Pankratz tightened his grip for just a moment, his blue eyes serious. “I was very sorry to hear about your brother.”

Rowan swallowed against a wave of grief and could only nod in response. The professor’s other hand rose to his shoulder for a quick squeeze and then he turned them both toward the table. Meri shot Rowan a quick frown as Lucien entered the booth first, but he just shook his head. The Witcher stood to let Pankratz take the spot opposite Lucien, while Meri took the spot beside him. Rowan and the Witcher exchanged a look, silently debating who would take the chair at the head of the table, but then the Witcher turned and slid in next to the professor, leaving the chair for Rowan.

When they were all seated, Pankratz leaned across the table and offered a quiet “All right, Lucien?”

Lucien didn’t look up from the table, but he smiled. “Yes, Professor.”

Pankratz nodded in satisfaction, and Meri and Rowan shared a fond look. Unlike some of the other professors, Pankratz had never pushed their shy friend or punished him for his eccentricities. If he hadn’t already been their favorite professor before, he would have been for that alone.

“Well, now that we’re all settled…” The professor clapped his hands together with a wide grin. “Introductions! Geralt, this is Rowan, Merienna, and Lucien, three of my very favorite former students.” He rested a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder and shook it a bit as he smiled. “And this is the famous White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia himself.”

The Witcher huffed but returned his smile before looking at them each in turn. “Pleased to meet you all.”

“We’re delighted!” Meri enthused. “After all, we’ve heard a great deal about you.”

The Witcher raised an accusing eyebrow at the professor, who only grinned back at him. “She means the songs obviously. I was much too busy imparting crucial knowledge to gossip about you while teaching.”

“Hmm.” The Witcher’s expression remained skeptical, but instead of saying more, he stood. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

As he slid past Rowan’s chair, Meri practically bounced in her seat. “Has he come for your concert, Professor?”

“Naturally,” Pankratz answered. “He has to listen to me spew out all the wrong lyrics before the right ones come to me; he might as well get to enjoy the polished final production.”

Rowan nodded toward Lucien. “And the duet you and Luce will play once he wins this whole thing.”

Lucien’s face flushed, and he kept his gaze locked on the table. “You don’t know that I’ll win,” he mumbled.

“Lucien, my boy, you’re the finest musician of your generation,” Pankratz said. “And I thank the gods that I had the chance to establish myself before you came along or I would have been forced to despise you.”

Meri laughed, and the professor turned his grin to her. “And how goes life as a portraitist?”

Groaning, she rested her forehead against the table before grimacing and sitting back, wiping at her brow with the back of her hand. “Why are nobles so boring?”

Pankratz shot Rowan a wink. “We’re not all terrible.”

“You don’t understand,” she whined. And then she launched into a story about a dowager who insisted on sitting for her portrait with all seven of her lap dogs. By the time the Witcher returned with their drinks, Rowan was snorting, the professor had tears in his eyes, and even Lucien was chuckling.

The Witcher carried the handles of three tankards of ale in one hand and those of two mugs of tea in the other. He set an ale each in front of Meri and Rowan and one at his spot and one of the mugs of tea in front of Lucien. He handed the other to the professor before sliding back into the booth and rested his arm along the back of it behind Pankratz’s shoulders, which prompted Meri to kick Rowan’s shin and shoot him a pointed look.

“Thank you, Geralt,” the professor said. “This is perfect.” Then he wiped his eyes again. “Meri, darling, I have missed you terribly. And Rowan!” he continued with a turn of his head. “You’ve been at your family’s estate?”

Rowan quickly swallowed his large swig of ale. “I’ve been traveling the barony. I’ve seen it all before, of course, but now…” He trailed off and took another drink.

When he lowered his tankard, the professor gazed back at him with understanding. “Now you’re the heir.”

Rowan nodded and wrapped his hands around the tankard. He looked up in surprise when the Witcher cleared his throat.

“Jaskier mentioned your loss,” he said in a low voice. “You have my sympathies.”

Being the target of that yellow gaze disconcerted Rowan for a second, but he tried to recover quickly. “I… thank you.”

“Do Witchers have siblings, Geralt?” Meri asked. Rowan rolled his eyes at the impudent question and casual address, but he could only be grateful at the change of subject, which he knew was for his sake.

“In a sense,” the Witcher replied. “I consider the Witchers who trained with me at Kaer Morhen my brothers.”

“Kaer Morhen,” Meri repeated. “It’s in the mountains of Kaedwen, correct?” At the Witcher’s nod, she turned to Pankratz. “Have you been, Professor?”

“I haven’t, no, though I have had the pleasure of meeting two of Geralt’s brothers.” He smirked at the Witcher. “Shall I tell them about Lambert and the manticore?”

If the Witcher had glared at him that way, Rowan likely would have never found his voice again, but the professor only laughed. “Fine, fine,” he said waving his hand. “How about when you and Eskel defeated those mated wyverns?”

The Witcher only grunted before taking another drink, but Pankratz must have known it for an affirmative grunt because he immediately launched into the story.

“Now every bestiary on the Continent will tell you that wyverns mate in pairs,” he began, “but Geralt and I discovered, quite by accident, that a certain subspecies is quite enthusiastically polyamorous when the right mood strikes them…”

As the professor’s words, his familiar cadence and voice, captured them all, a sharp pang of bittersweet nostalgia pierced Rowan’s chest. He glanced at Meri to find her already looking back at him, her lips in a rueful twist, and he knew she felt the same. Even Lucien met his eyes and gave him one of his small smiles, the one that always seemed somehow innocent and also older than it had any right to be.

At some point in the story, the professor coughed lightly into his fist and cleared his throat. The Witcher frowned and slid from his seat to head back to the bar. When he returned, he held a pitcher of water and several glasses. He filled one and placed it before Pankratz, who touched his arm in thanks without breaking from the tale he was telling. If the look on Meri’s face were any indication, she was in absolute raptures at the display.

When the professor finished his story, to the delight and applause of the whole table (excepting the Witcher, but even his sharp gaze softened as he gazed at Pankratz), he drank deeply from the water glass. “Phew,” he said. “I really should be saving my voice.” He patted the table in front of him. “And Lucien and I should both probably get some rest.”

The Witcher leaned toward him and murmured something near his ear that made the professor beam at him. 

“A bath would be wonderful,” he declared.

The Witcher left them again, and not even Rowan could mistake the fondness in Pankratz’s eyes as they followed him.

Meri looked fit to explode in giddy joy. “If I should ever marry, I hope my husband is half as attentive as yours, Professor.”

Pankratz, who had been in the middle of another sip from his glass, spluttered and choked. Rowan reached across and thumped his between the shoulder blades until the professor waved him off.

“Meri, dear,” he wheezed, “I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong idea. Geralt and I are not married.”

“As near as,” she protested.

The professor’s pained flinch was as obvious as his fondness had been. “We’re not… we’ve never been… romantically involved. We’re friends–very good friends, I hope–but nothing more.”

Meri’s sigh heaved across the table in a gust that fluttered the professor’s hair. “You, Professor, and I say this with all the love and respect I hold for you, are an absolute dunce.”

Pankratz blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Meri threw up her hands. “He’s in love with you!”

With wide and panicked eyes, Pankratz glanced to the bar and then to Rowan, who had years of experience mitigating the results of Meri’s ill-timed outbursts, with either his reason or occasionally his fists. But this time he could only shrug.

“You know I hate to admit that Meri’s ever right about anything.” That earned him a punch in the shoulder. “But she’s right this time.”

Pankratz’s expression took on a desperate cast as they turned to Lucien, who shrank a little under their combined attention. He bit his lip but then straightened his shoulders and met the professor’s gaze.

“I only know of romance from songs,” he said in his quiet voice, “but do you know the ballad ‘The Courting of the Countess’?”

“Yes, of course,” Pankratz replied, and his voice was hoarse in a way that had nothing to do with the long story he’d told.

“I can hear that song when he looks at you,” Lucien murmured as he dropped his gaze back to the table.

They all sat in silence for a long moment, long enough that Rowan felt a squirm of worry. Pankratz had always allowed his students liberties, the three of them even more than most, but perhaps they’d finally gone too far. He braced himself for a burst of outrage, for the professor to harshly scold them and then storm from the table. He was still working out the opening words of an appropriate apology when the professor drew in a deep breath, nodded to himself, and rose from the table.

“Right then. Will you excuse me?”

As he stalked toward the bar, head held high, Meri gasped and twisted in her seat to kneel and peer over the top of the booth. “Oh, sweet Melitele,” she prayed fervently, “grant me this and I shall never ask for anything else ever again.”

“Meri, sit down,” Rowan chastised, but it was half-hearted at best. He couldn’t resist sneaking looks as the professor approached the Witcher and turned him with a light touch on his shoulder. Even Lucien craned his neck to watch the exchange.

The professor’s hand never left the Witcher’s shoulder. He left only a thin gap between them, and they both bent their heads to speak within the confines of that private space. The Witcher tensed at the professor’s words, but then he swallowed, licked his lips, and nodded. The professor’s hand left his shoulder to rest against his jaw. His other hand went to the Witcher’s nape and drew him in for a long kiss.

Rowan barely had time to clap a hand over Meri’s mouth before she released a squeal that would have been audible to the whole tavern. Even so, the Witcher broke the kiss to look at them and then ducked his head. Pankratz followed his momentary gaze, and Meri mimed enthusiastic applause. The professor laughed and then offered them an elaborate bow. In the next moment, he had the Witcher by the arm and was dragging him toward the stairs that led to the rooms above.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow!” he called, and then they disappeared from view.

Slumping back into her seat, Meri clasped her hands over her heart. “This is the greatest night of my life.”

Rowan snorted. “I need another drink.” He looked at Lucien, who had a soft smirk on his face. “What is it, Luce?”

Lucien’s smirk turned sly in a way that could only be attributed to Meri’s influence. “I don’t think the professor is going to remember about saving his voice.”

Cackling wildly, Meri lowered her head to the table again and began pounding the surface with an open hand. Rowan rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight his grin. Then and there, he resolved that he would return to Oxenfurt every competition weekend, no matter what responsibilities life might thrust upon him.


	54. Blessed Curse (Established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous note on Tumblr: okay so what if jaskier gets irrevocably cursed by like a witch or something to live forever. she talks all about how he’s forever going to watch his loved ones die and what a horrible existence it will be, and jaskier just has to sit through it and pretend he isn’t thrilled he gets to stay with geralt for so much longer. maybe also geralt finding out and being all quietly happy

Jaskier should really be paying attention--he’s the one being cursed, after all--but the witch has been rambling for an _incredibly_ long time, and coming from him, that’s saying something. As she turns to pace to the other side of the little cabin, he catches Geralt’s gaze from across the room and rolls his eyes. Geralt scowls at him and tests his bonds again. He’s chained to a chair just like Jaskier is, and while the situation had been fairly alarming at first, when the witch passed the twentieth minute of her evil monologue, alarm had given way to boredom.

Alarm makes a roaring comeback when Jaskier sees Geralt’s head whip toward the witch and his eyes widen. Jaskier forces his inattentive brain to tune back in. The witch seems to be wrapping up.

“... and as the long centuries pass, you will watch every place you’ve ever called home fall to ruin and rubble and you will bury the bones of everyone you’ve ever loved and you will remain, ceaselessly roaming this barren world, heartbroken and alone.”

She raises her hand in a triumphant flourish, and Jaskier knows he should probably school his expression to something like fear instead of gaping astonishment, but she... is she...

Is she actually cursing him with eternal life?

He’s not naive. He knows immortality has its own problems and complications and tragedies, but given that his greatest fear for the past several years--the thought that has kept him awake at night and haunted his sleep--has been the end of his mortal life and leaving Geralt to grief and loneliness, he’s having a hard time remembering the downsides.

A wave of warmth washes through him and then builds to heat and then builds to _burning_ and oh, this is a downside, this is a definite downside, he is absolutely being cursed. As he throws back his head and screams, he can only pray that the pain ends quickly.

His prayer is answered. The heat vanishes, as do his chains and the chair and the wooden floor. He falls to his hands and knees in thick grass, panting to get his wildly beating heart under control. Geralt, similarly freed, rushes to his side, clutches at him, checks for injuries.

“I’m all right,” Jaskier gasps. 

Geralt pulls him into a firm embrace, and Jaskier melts into it for a moment before leaning back to gaze into his lover’s eyes.

“Do you think she...? Do you think I’m really...?”

A tiny furrow creases Geralt’s brow, and he swallows. “We should find Yennefer. And Triss. We need to figure out if... what she did.”

Jaskier nods. He can see Geralt setting the thought aside, building a wall around it, and he understands; having this seed of hope ripped up by the roots would devastate them both. Even so, he can feel the seed bury itself deep within his heart’s soil.

Later, after they’ve seen Yennefer and Triss, after they’ve checked and rechecked a hundred times and then a hundred more, the seed of hope bursts into life and unfurls to drape them both in the glorious blooms of promise.


	55. Tide Me Over (Pre-slash? or Open established)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Geralt teaching Jaskier to meditate (from Tumblr user lemonycacti)

From the bed in their room, Geralt can hear Jaskier sing. From years of experience, he knows what the crowd in the tavern below will see (the easy smile, the gliding steps, the caress of fingertips on lute strings) and what they won’t (the dark shadows beneath blue eyes). Jaskier is a consummate professional. Many people (Geralt’s former self included) would scoff at that description applied to a bard, but he has witnessed firsthand the hard work behind every lighthearted turn of phrase.

Jaskier’s audience would never believe that the bright and boisterous figure before them goes quiet in the night. His nightmares don’t announce themselves with flailing and screams. They jolt him awake and leave him rigid with tension until his heartbeat slows. They send him rolling to his feet and tiptoeing to the woods at the edge of a clearing as though to relieve himself. Only a Witcher would hear the soft gasps muffled behind a hand that grows wet with dripping tears.

Geralt has tried to help in the two weeks since the nightmares began. When they passed a traveling merchant, he bought a bottle of the local rotgut and toasted himself when Jaskier spent the evening cheerful and rosy with drink. (Quiet tears had turned to not-so-quiet sobs and then loud retching.) He spent an afternoon offering details about the creature and the fight that Jaskier scribbled down with tangible enthusiasm. (The almost-yell had died when Jaskier woke, choked off behind the bard’s teeth.) Even his decision to retire early had been in the hopes that Jaskier would find better company; he’d be far from the first or the last man to seek comfort in the soft embrace of a willing woman. When Geralt hears heavy footsteps on the stairs, he knows he’s failed again.

Jaskier slips inside, sets his lute case down, and barely removes his boots and doublet before sinking into the bed. He’s asleep in minutes, any dread he might feel about what’s to come smothered by exhaustion. Geralt lies beside him and waits. When Jaskier’s limbs begin to twitch, Geralt rolls onto his side to face him. He watches as the expressive face twists and feels a phantom throb in the nearly healed wound in his side. The vision that haunts him is a weaker spirit than Jaskier’s ghost, but it gnashes its teeth and bites with the memory of hands clutching at his jerkin and a voice breaking as it pleads for him to open his eyes.

When Jaskier jerks awake, Geralt reaches for him, which makes him jerk again. But even in his bleary panic, he displays the trust that Geralt will never deserve and shifts until they lie face to face. Geralt takes a warm hand in his cold one and presses it against his bare chest. He takes a deep, steady breath beneath the callused fingertips. A sound sharp and small as a broken shell pierces Jaskier’s silence.

“Focus on the rhythm of my breathing,” Geralt tells him. “Nothing else. Just the rise and fall. Like a…” He fumbles for the metaphor Vesemir had used to teach a handful of rowdy boys the basics of mediation.

“Like a tide,” Jaskier offers in a whisper.

“Like a tide,” Geralt agrees.

He can’t remember if that was Vesemir’s description, but it works well enough. Geralt maintains a low murmur of rise and fall and in and out in the hopes that the waves will cut the moorings of Jaskier’s fear. Speaking when the bard is so silent feels like an uncertain ship in an unsteady sea, but Geralt refuses to flounder.

In time, he’s able to guide Jaskier back to shore.

Fingers trail through his chest hair to rest on the bandages still wrapped around his abdomen.

“You stopped, you know,” Jaskier accuses.

“I know.”

Even with just the moonlight through the window, he can see the weariness in Jaskier’s gaze. “You can’t stop the tide, Geralt. People will either drown or get stuck with no way to sail home again.”

“You could abandon ship.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I’d be a poor captain if I did.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You’re the captain?”

A wink eclipses the star of Jaskier’s right eye before it returns to shining. “I’ll let you be first mate if you prove worthy.”

“Hmm. Fair enough.”

Jaskier makes no attempt to hide his yawn, may even exaggerate it slightly for dramatic effect. “My first order is for the crew to get some fucking sleep.”

“Aye, Captain.”

A smile curls Jaskier’s lips even as his eyes close. Geralt follows his lead and lets himself drift away, anchored by the hand still pressed against his side.


	56. Twin Peaks (Pre-slash)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Canon, angst or h/c. Jaskier has a fear of heights. At first Geralt is annoyed, of course. (From Tumblr user ewanspotter)

Months later, Jaskier realized that his relationship with Geralt was not the only thing to crack upon that mountain.

On one chilly winter evening, he found himself climbing out the window of a beautiful comtesse’s bedchamber. He had lost count of how many windows he had turned into impromptu exits, but he knew the number was considerable. He could judge at a glance the riskiness of the fall or the viability of climbing down the exterior wall. The comtesse’s window let out onto a knoll thick with soft grass not more than a meter beneath his feet if he hung from the sill. He could not have asked for a better escape route.

He tried to explain this to his fingertips when they refused to release the ledge. He tried to reason with his pounding heart and panting lungs. He firmly told himself that the fall was far less likely to hurt him than if the comte’s men should find him dangling from the window.

When the guards dragged him down by the ankle and delivered a vicious beating, he felt no satisfaction in judging the situation correctly.

Once the comte was satisfied with his punishment, Jaskier stumbled back to his room at the inn. When he went to bed that night, curling around his bruised ribs and the wine bottle he’d emptied, he dreamed of the scrape of a thick chain beneath his fingers, the crack of a wooden plank beneath his feet, and a plummet through dense mist. He woke in a blind panic and promptly deposited all the wine he’d drunk into the wash basin.

Despite his bruises, he left the courts for the open road the next morning. The dwellings and workplaces of barmaids and stablehands were rarely more than one story, and he was unlikely to be chased from a brothel. If a prostitute led him to a second-floor room, he simply insisted the curtains be shut tight–for privacy’s sake, of course. If a voluptuous farmer’s daughter tried to coax him up the ladder to a hay loft, he simply pulled her back into his arms and led her to the open fields and the star-strewn sky. He was a poet, after all.

And so, the night with the comtesse was a distant memory when he inevitably crossed the White Wolf’s Path again. The reunion was first bitter, then sweet. Jaskier could hardly doubt the sincerity of Geralt’s apology when it preceded an introduction to his Child Surprise and an invitation to winter with them in Kaer Morhen.

The journey north was replete with laughter and song, and not all the tears they shed were born of grief. When they finally reached the mountain path, the beauty of the novel landscape dazzled Jaskier. They had climbed almost half a day before his palms began to sweat. He blamed his breathlessness on the altitude and told himself that it was only sensible to huddle so close to the rock face even if the winding path was wide enough for Roach. The cold was surely to blame for his trembling.

Ciri noticed when he went to his knees in the snow. She called ahead to Geralt, who was leading Roach and was thus unable to get around or turn her. Jaskier covered his face with his hands and focused on trying to fill his lungs instead of Ciri’s worried questions and Geralt’s demands that they keep moving or risk losing the light. Eventually he heard Roach’s hoofbeats fade away, and he nearly let out a sob despite the feel of Ciri’s hand on his shoulder and the knowledge that Geralt would never, ever leave her behind.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard footsteps return. Strong hands gripping his wrists replaced Ciri’s fingers stroking his hair. When Geralt pulled his hands from his face, his bewildered expression forced a hysterical giggle from Jaskier’s lips. The mountain air turned its echo to a wounded cry.

“It could have been me,” he panted.

“What?” Geralt’s scowl twisted from concern to annoyance and back again. “What could have been you?”

After several tries, he gulped down enough air to answer. “Borch.”

Geralt’s gaze swept over the steep path that stretched before and behind them. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Despite their reconciliation, Jaskier still braced for yelling, for commands that he regain his feet, for a reiteration of all the ways that he failed as a companion, as a friend, as a person.

He was not prepared for the grasp of Geralt’s hands to travel from his wrists to his shoulders or the expression of intense conviction in his eyes.

“I will never let you fall,” he declared.

Promise broke through panic. Jaskier clung to it as he clung to the hand that led him up the path to the wider clearing where Roach awaited them. He clung to the edge of Geralt’s bedroll as they slept side by side that night. He clung and clutched and held tight to encouraging words and ramblings about creatures that distracted his thoughts and left Geralt’s voice hoarse in the evenings. And after he had fought for every footstep, he nearly wept with gratitude when Geralt led him to a bedroom on the keep’s lower level.

Exhausted in body, mind, and soul, Jaskier searched for the right words of thanks, of apology, of explanation. He didn’t find them before Geralt pressed a hand to his jaw.

“We’ll fix it,” he said. “We’ll take it slow, and we’ll fix it.”

Jaskier could only nod in the face of his quiet certainty. When Geralt pulled him into a firm embrace, he closed his eyes and soaked in the smell of him, the offered strength and support. And he let himself believe that come the spring, they would travel down this mountain together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Yell at me on my Tumblr: girl-in-red-crossing.


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